


My Favorite Mistake

by that_which_yields



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst, Blatant Disregard for Feelings, Canon Universe, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn With Plot, Slow Build, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:21:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 45,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_which_yields/pseuds/that_which_yields
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heero is struggling for some semblance of control, shattering under the strain of so many impossible expectations. Duo is breaking beneath the weight of all of the sins he bears, unable to cope with all of the blood guilt on his soul. They both are desperate to find an outlet for their living nightmares. Redemption is a whipping post, a hair shirt, a long line of flagellants waiting to be punished. Redemption can only be achieved through pain. </p><p>When they crash into each other's lives like so many waves into the sand, will they be polished into glass or destroyed beneath the onslaught?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Shadow on the Dark Side of the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> This is my test chapter and also my maiden voyage. You don't have to be gentle, but please tell me what you think! This will eventually follow along the lines of the canon plot, though it will of course stray (1x2, despite my deepest wishes, is indeed not canon).

Heero Yuy sits silently in the bar, staring at the commotion littering the dark room. Smoke rises like a sullen haze around him, and his nose wrinkles imperceptibly. Nicotine is just another crutch for the weak. His deep blue eyes flicker over to the tumbler in his hand, the amber liquid inside barely touched. He knows better than to sit in a bar without the appearance of drinking, especially in wartimes. Yet the reason he is here goes far deeper than alcohol could reach. He can feel the itching beneath his skin, the slight twitch in his fingers. His eyes rove the room restlessly, scanning the occupants, and he barely muffles an agitated sigh. Nothing here would suit. A bevy of drunken men and women, far beyond the reaches of being interesting. Half would probably fall asleep before serving their purpose.

He spins the tumbler in his hand again, watching the liquor swirl slowly around the edges. He lifts it to his lips and takes a sip, enjoying the low burn in his belly, the fire that traces him in the wake of the alcohol. He won’t drink too much. Would never drink enough to feel anything more than a hint of warmth. He is always so cold.

He can sense the madness edging his mind, a frame of barbed wire and twisted steel. He can feel himself spiraling out of control. J would be furious right now, would be demanding that he return to the torture referred to as “training.” What Heero never told J was that the training only made things worse, only made him grasp more desperately at any illusion of control. Heero would kill a man for the knowledge that he was in control of his own destiny, and indeed had before. He bites down on a low snarl, aware that his self control is splintering beneath his rigid grip. He needs to find something, and soon. A willing body, pliant beneath him, begging to be taken. A compliant victim. A room where no one would hear the screams.

The door creaks open, and he turns slightly on the barstool, body tensing. A slight figure slips through the doorway, scans the room, and slides onto a stool. His body tenses all at once, a thrill of need rushing through his frame. There. Something about the newcomer snatches up his reasoning and throws it out the window, as desire hums through him like a current. His hand clenches on the glass, squeezing until he feels it creak beneath his fingers. A tiny crack appears on the side and he forces himself to put it down, trying to pull in a breath through his suddenly numbed lips. He absently licks the trickle of liquid off of his thumb and leaves his eyes pinned to his target, dreaming.

* * *

 

 

Peacetime is a bad time for Duo Maxwell. Professor G had been strangely silent, encouraging him to stay low and remain concealed. This was terrible news for Duo. Sick as it was, war was the only thing that kept him sane. He paces the small room that serves as his hideout, counting his steps across the worn carpet. One, two, three… he snorts to himself, tangling his fingers in the end of his tawny braid. Pacing would not fix the toxic desperation seeping through his veins. They might call this a ‘safehouse’, but there was more danger alone in this tiny room than in the soldiers sweeping the country to find him.

A low keening whimper runs through his mind, a burble of indistinguishable voices. They were all crying out, the howls and screams of his victims. The crackle of the church fire, the patter of children’s feet, orphans running for their lives. Duo sinks to the floor, clutching his hands to his head. He couldn’t survive in this emptiness, in a day devoid of mobile suit controls beneath his hands. He hated the death that his hands brought but he needed the pain, the crack of his body against the scorching metal walls of his suit, the bruises blossoming on his skin like orchids. He needed to wake up in the morning with the lingering torment of a body pushed past its limits. He needed the terrible blankness of the Angel of Death, his Shinigami, the sweet madness of Deathscythe’s weaponry slicing through screeching metal like so much shredded paper.

The whimper in his mind erupts into a low, helpless moan, and he clamps his hands over his mouth, realizing that the pitiful sound is escaping from his lips. The moan quiets, muffled, but he can hear it echoing through his ravaged brain. The lull in fighting is tearing at his sanity, ripping through any sense of reality. He finds his hands inching toward the knives tucked into his combats boots, the gleam of their blades shining brilliantly in his mind’s eye. He can already feel the sharp clarity of pain shredding the fog from his mind, the blood sweeping away the lethal guilt pressing down on his chest. His heartbeat speeds up, slamming into his ribcage like a prizefighter in a championship match. He stops his hands’ slow creep and rubs at his chest, trying to slow the thrumming of his pulse beneath his skin. He knows he can’t go on like this much longer.

His hands slide into his lap, helpless, and fingers trace the myriad of scars etching his pale skin. The ridges of tissue roll beneath his fingertips like the slow waves of memory, ebbing and flowing like the living nightmares of his past. A red haze is creeping over his vision as the chants in his mind grow louder, as the screams begin to reverberate with the old familiar demand: bleed for us. Pay for your sins. It is your fault, and you must suffer. A shudder wracks his slender frame and he throws himself to his feet. He shrugs into a dark, heavy coat and slams into the door, fingers trembling as they grasp at the doorknob. He has to get out, and now, before he makes a lethal mistake. He can’t afford to be injured, when he needs the siren call of battle in his blood. He can’t afford to have G thinking that he is unfit for battle, when the whine of his suit’s engine is the only song that keeps him going. His violet eyes rapidly dart around the street, streetlights casting a feeble glow on the pavement. Finally his desolate gaze falls on the faint neon shimmer of a bar’s sign, and he turns himself that direction with a frantic prayer.

Please let this work.

 

* * *

 

 

Duo throws open the door of the bar and heads straight for the battered wooden counter, taking only a second to ascertain that no danger lingers in the eyes of the building’s drunken inhabitants. He slides onto a stool, carelessly throwing the coat’s length out behind him. The bartender appears in front of him like an answered prayer and raises an eyebrow. Duo wonders what he looks like, and raises a hand to touch his hair. His hands are trembling like fallen leaves, and, as he guessed, his hair is wild and wind tossed from his anxious flight. A faint blush creeps across his high cheekbones, but he manages to mumble out an order for something strong. A glass slides across the bar to him, filled with a golden liquid. He tosses a money chip to the bartender and tilts the glass to his lips, downing half of the alcohol in that first gulp. Heat blazes down his throat, warming his belly. He drinks the rest and slides the glass back across the bar for a refill, chucking a second chip onto the wood.

He feels a little calmer as he sips the second glass, the edges of his desperation blunted by the fuzzy warmth of the whiskey. At least, he thinks it’s whiskey. He wasn’t paying much attention when he flung his hand out at the lines of bottles and begged for something cheap and fast. It’s only as his tensed muscles relax that he notices the weight of eyes on him. His shoulders tighten, as if to ward off a blade aimed at his spine, and he casually rotates the barstool until he is facing the room. The pool tables are filled, but the players are far too occupied with placing bets, missing shots, and pawing at the adoring women to pay him any mind. He takes a long sip of his drink, clinging to the tingling in his fingertips, enjoying the numbness spreading over his mind. He turns his head a bit more and finds the glitter of eyes upon him.

His breath leaves him in a quiet whistle as he takes in his observer. A slender figure, a measured gaze, the aura of someone who is used to being obeyed. The barely caged violence of one who is forced to submit to his inferiors. Duo knows the struggle he sees banked in every tensed line of the other man’s body, knows if he glanced in a mirror he would see the same strain in every inch of his own flesh. His eyes catch the white knuckled grip of the stranger’s hand and a frown tilts his lips. The same quicksand emptiness that echoes in his skin is mirrored in every anguished second of their mated eyes.

Duo tears his eyes away, releasing a gasp that he wasn’t aware of holding in. He drains the glass, beckons the bartender, and stares fixedly at the scratched wood grain beneath him. His empty hands curl into themselves, tendons straining as he clenches his fingers tight to his palms. Nails dig in, pain biting at the fuzziness of the alcohol, neither the liquor nor the pain enough to clear the neediness from his mind. The weight of the stranger’s gaze rests heavy on his bowed head, the pressure like the touch of a hand on his hair. His glass reappears before him and he thoughtlessly flicks another chip toward the bartender. A hand snakes out and grabs the chip midair, placing it down in front of him.

Duo glances up, eyes half-lidded with the effort of holding the tattered edges of his control. The stranger stands beside him, passing his own chip to the man behind the bar. Duo rocks back on his stool, stunned by the danger that sweeps off of his companion. The darkness is nearly palpable, and Duo can feel something in his body come alive in response. A crimson fog sweeps across his eyes as the stranger extends a hand.

“Heero.” He says, by way of greeting.

Duo has to swallow around the sudden whimper in his throat. This stranger, this Heero’s voice, is ringed with shadow, a raspy echo of dark alleys and moonless nights. His body is responding against his will, alcohol soaked fibers of his brain aching to hear that voice again. Belatedly, Duo remembers Heero’s hand, and he lifts his own to meet it. Heero’s fingers wrap around his, strong and sure, with calluses born from what he knows to be a mobile suit’s controls. The thought sends a jolt of arousal through him. Hands capable of commanding a suit are more than able to strip him bare and feed the frenzied screams for pain.

A small, deadly smile curls Heero’s lips, and Duo has to close his eyes against a second surge of desire, barreling through him so close on the heels of the first.

“It’s considered polite to respond, but I don’t particularly care what your name is as long as you’ll let me fuck you. Finish your drink.”

Duo’s eyes shoot open and he stares up at Heero. Heero’s eyes are blue, he notices, but not the blue of a calm day. No, the eyes that capture him and demand his acquiescence are the midnight blue of an ocean’s storm, the roiling waves and the snapping fury of a raging wind. And at this moment, those storm deep eyes are swept out, pupils devouring the iris like the gaping maw of a maelstrom. The intensity in the blackness of his gaze is shattering, and Duo is shocked to find himself quaking like a strung-out addict.

Heero’s hand is still holding his, and it closes around his wrist like a vise. Duo finds himself pulled from his stool, finds the glass pressed into his other hand.

“Drink.” Heero commands, and his voice offers no chance of argument.

The alcohol burns its way down his body, just as before, but Duo doesn’t notice. Everything in him is focused on the iron shackle of fingers around his wrist, the frisson of abject need that rocks him with every second that Heero touches his skin. He barely registers dropping the glass, the bartender’s startled shout, as Heero pulls him toward the door. He barely registers that perhaps he should be asking questions, should be figuring out whether Heero means to kill him, before he is pulled onto the back of a motorcycle. And then, as the rumble of the engine growls through him, as he is pressed against the warmth of a lethally muscled back, as his arms are clutching the heat of his destruction, he doesn’t register anything at all.


	2. Feed a Fever, Starve a Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heero is struggling for some semblance of control, shattering under the strain of so many impossible expectations. Duo is breaking beneath the weight of all of the sins he bears, unable to cope with all of the blood guilt on his soul. They both are desperate to find an outlet for their living nightmares. Redemption is a whipping post, a hair shirt, a long line of flagellants waiting to be punished. Redemption can only be achieved through pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible Triggers, here. Asshole!Heero, Emotionally Damaged Duo. Dubious consent. Extremely rough sex.

The motorcycle skids to a stop in front of a nondescript hotel. Perhaps Duo would recognize it, if he had the wherewithal to focus on anything except the scorching heat of Heero’s back. The fabric of their clothing is doing nothing to contain the tension rising between their bodies. The rumble of the motor quiets, then vanishes, and Heero snaps the stand down with an impatient jerk from his booted foot. Duo comes back to himself for long enough to realize that he is completely, painfully hard. And as Heero slides from the bike, turning to latch those sapphire eyes onto his face, Duo sees that he’d felt it. An arrogant, knowing smirk is curled across Heero’s lips, and Duo shudders violently.

“Come,” Heero orders, as he turns to the brightly lit entrance of the hotel.

“Planning on it,” Duo mumbles under his breath, and he thinks he hears a low chuckle from the figure in front of him. He climbs off of the bike, nearly falling as his wobbly legs hit the ground. He can’t pinpoint whether it’s the alcohol flooding his system or the arousal short-circuiting his brain that’s gotten him completely off balance. Probably a combination of both, he muses, as he staggers after Heero.

Heero sweeps past the reception desk without a second glance, no shyness in the evidence of his plans. He vanishes into the dimly lit hallway without checking to see if Duo is following. Duo trails behind him like an abandoned child, ducking his head beneath the knowing stare of the man sitting behind the desk. Reeking of alcohol as he is, it’s clear that he’s Heero’s most recent (or only? The thought that he doesn’t know bothers him for a moment) plaything. A hint of shame penetrates the sweet, fuzzy haze of tipsiness and arousal surrounding him, and for a moment he wonders what exactly he’s doing. With the moment of clarity, a bloody face arises in his memory, his name on its lips, betrayal in its eyes.

Shaking his head, he quickens his steps and reaches Heero just as the other man is pushing open the door to a room. Heero pushes the door closed behind him and reaches out to turn on the light. Duo’s heart stutters quickly, knowing that there will be too much revealed in the harsh brightness of fluorescent lights. The multitude of scars, the bruising from his battle harness, the desperation in his violet eyes. He catches Heero’s hand, bringing it to his lips, and nips at the knuckles.

“It’s better in the darkness, isn’t it?”

Heero doesn’t answer, but Duo senses the heavy weight of his eyes. Just as Duo is about to break the silence, chafing under the slight disapproval wafting off of Heero, the other man jerks his hand away and stalks to the window. His steps are light and nearly silent, the padding of a man used to going unheard. He twitches open the curtains, allowing slivers of moonlight to spear through the blinds and lighten the room.

“I like to see what I’m doing,” Heero growls, and there’s a hint of reproach in his tone.

Duo’s skin crawls beneath the chastising words, and he runs a frustrated hand through his messy hair. “Right, of course.”

He is seconds away from apologizing when Heero steps out of the shadows beside him and crushes his lips to Duo’s. It’s like no kiss Duo has ever experienced. Heero’s lips are soft, delightfully so, and skilled, but the kiss is more teeth and demanding tongue than the caress of lips meeting. Even so, it is exactly what he craves. He arches into Heero, his hands clutching at the rough fabric of Heero’s shirt, and his mouth parts on a moan. Heero’s tongue instantly slips into his mouth, exploring with a fierce possessiveness that stuns him. He is suddenly and violently hard, shame of the lobby forgotten beneath the onslaught. Heero pulls back slightly, tongue withdrawing, and bites down on Duo’s lip. This is no love bite, more of a claiming, a mark. Heero’s hand laces into the hair at the nape of Duo’s neck and Duo shivers, paralyzed. He licks his lips, nervously, and tastes blood.

Heero’s hand tightens and a jolt of mingled fear and arousal shoots through Duo’s body. A quiet whimper escapes his lips, and he swallows a groan as Heero’s dark chuckle echoes through the room. That laugh skips his brain altogether and arrows straight to his groin. The fingers in his hair twist, and Duo finds himself being turned toward the bed. He stumbles as Heero shoves him, pressing him down into the mattress. He turns his face to the side, breathing in the musty scent of hotel sheets, and struggles to draw in a full breath. Heero is barely touching him, their only connection the hand in his hair, but he can feel the overpowering presence of the other man like a leaden weight.

Heero presses himself over Duo’s back, blanketing him. His breath flutters across Duo’s ear as he leans in close, and he can feel a shiver run through Duo’s slim frame. Rolling his hips, he grinds himself against Duo’s ass, a hiss of pleasure escaping from between his lips. Duo’s pleading whimper is muffled against the rough cotton sheets, and he shifts himself into the mattress, trying to find some kind of relief for the overwhelming arousal flooding his body.

Heero’s voices slips over him like sin incarnate. “How would you like me to take you?”

Duo swallows audibly, knowing that his answer is probably irrelevant. At this point, he is so desperate to find release that he’d agree to just about anything. “However you’d like.”

There is a twitch against his backside to match Heero’s sharply indrawn breath, and Duo arches off of the bed as he is dragged up by his hair. His mouth opens in protest, tears springing to his eyes, but he clamps his teeth around the complaint. He needs this pain.

“On your back then. I want to see your face when you scream.”

Duo quakes at the words, dropped carelessly into the silence of the room. He is trembling beneath the molten heat of Heero’s touch, coming apart at the seams with alarming rapidity. Heero’s hands are all over him, sure and unhesitating. His coat drops to the ground in a forgotten puddle, and a searing warmth lights up his chest as Heero’s hands slip beneath his shirt. He shivers a little in the chill of the room as his shirt joins his coat, and again as Heero’s hands move deftly to the buckle of his belt. Duo almost reaches out to touch Heero, but a soft snarl stops him in his tracks. He allows himself to be shoved back onto the bed, landing this time on his back.

Heero yanks Duo’s pants off unceremoniously, discarding his boxers as well. Duo barely has time to register the cool air on his uncomfortably hard cock before Heero’s hand is wrapped around it, calluses scraping the soft skin. Duo’s back bows as the pleasure overwhelms him, and a pitiful whine grates into the still room. Heero’s thumb runs over the tip, collecting the evidence of Duo’s loss of control, fingers just a little too rough for pure pleasure. Duo’s hands grip the sheets, cotton clenched tightly into his fists. His eyes are clamped closed, whole being narrowed into the almost painful strokes of Heero’s hand.

Cool air hits him as a zipper rattles, the metallic noise melding with Duo’s groan of frustration. He cracks open his eyes to find Heero pulling himself out of his pants, leaving himself fully clothed. Heero strokes himself slowly, his eyes pinning Duo to the bed. In the moonlight, they look like endless pits, lit with a searing intensity. Heero’s mouth falls open with the movements of his hand, a murmur of pleasure low in his throat. Duo’s heart is pounding, pulse fluttering rapidly in his throat as he lays exposed on the bed. He shifts impatiently, tidal waves of need swamping him with every passing moment.

“Please,” Duo begs, and a nearly feral snarl rumbles out of Heero’s chest.

Heero’s hands drop to his hips, lifting them off of the bed, and he obediently spreads his knees, offering himself to the other man. The blunt pressure shoves at his opening, and his eyes widen as he realizes that Heero has no intention of readying him. Still, he reminds himself, he asked for this. He grits his teeth as the force intensifies, his unprepared muscles protesting the invasion of hard flesh into his body. He gasps at the unrelenting demand, the low burn, the tearing feeling, and his head thrashes as agony swamps him. Heero’s hand fists him again and a howl erupts from his throat as, on the second stroke of those talented fingers, Heero sheaths himself completely.

Without a moment for adjustment, Heero begins rolling his hips, rocking himself in and out of Duo’s body. Duo can feel the slickness around Heero’s cock, knows that the lubricant is his own blood. The pain is almost overwhelming, but Heero’s hand is centering him in the agonizing duality of the only forgiveness he knows how to accept. Each sinfully parallel blow from fingers and shaft bring Duo closer to the edge, every second of torment another face erased from his memory. His muscles are trembling beneath the onslaught, his body screaming for and drawing away from the oncoming storm of his climax. Heero’s motions increase in speed, slamming into Duo’s hips with bruising force. The bed is creaking beneath their exertions, sheets damp with blood.

Sweat beads on his body, moans growing suspiciously closer to screams. He is meeting Heero thrust for thrust, part and parcel of his own destruction. He can feel himself being shredded with every plunge, can taste the blood on the air like pennies on his tongue. His eyes fly open and latch onto Heero’s face, find the other man’s features grown tense with pleasure. He is losing himself in Duo, eyebrows drawn down in concentration, irises completely wiped out. His hand tightens around Duo’s dick, and Duo’s head slams back against the bed. His head ricochets off the headboard, and it is the sudden burst of menace against his skull that tips him over the edge. His back arches painfully, hands ripping through the fragile hotel sheets, and his throat tears on an unholy howl. Tears streak down his face as the peak ruptures his mind, and he fights for consciousness in the wake of the overwhelming sensation.

The burst of heat spurs Heero over the edge as well, and he stills as he empties himself into Duo’s prone form. His teeth are bared in a satisfied grimace as he rocks ever so slightly, rubbing out the last of his climax. Duo shudders with the last shocks of his pleasure and, as the endorphins begin to fade, settles into an unnatural stillness. His vision is edged in darkness, head throbbing from the intensity of the experience. He turns his face away as Heero pulls out of his body, dropping his hips to the sheets, instantly removing himself from the stained surface. Duo sits up slowly, shame creeping up into consciousness as he struggles to the edge of the mattress. Heero disappears into the bathroom, closing the door behind him, and Duo finds his clothing in the beam of light that creeps out from the doorframe. The stiffness is already settling into his bones, blood drying sticky and sickening on his thighs. His own seed lingers on his shaft and belly, cloying and damp as his body chills. Still, he can feel the sated languor of orgasm calming him, the lingering pain silencing the demons. He dons his clothing like armor, fingers trembling as he fights to button his pants, to buckle his belt. He is shrugging into his coat when Heero steps back into the room, leaving the bathroom door ajar.

The light floods the room, revealing Heero’s impossibly composed face. He looks nothing like the man who was just lost in pleasure, lost in Duo’s body. In fact, he wears his face like a death mask, utterly apathetic in the presence of someone who he just fucked. Duo shuffles his feet, knowing himself to be considerably more affected by their encounter. He already feels the restlessness, the irresistible urge to run from any reminder of his flaws.

“I have to go. But maybe if you’re in the area again…” Duo trails off, voice quiet.

Heero stares at him, implacable, unimpressed. Duo shifts uneasily beneath the gaze, glancing longingly at the door.

“I travel,” Heero replies dismissively. “But if I am here again, you were sufficient for my needs.”

Duo rocks back on his heels, stung. He wasn’t expecting an emotional connection from a quick fuck at a bar, but Heero’s words seem callous and unnecessary. Despite the fact that Duo used Heero to sate his desperate masochism, he wasn’t expecting such an abject rejection.

“Yeah, I travel too. I’m a bit of a wanderer. Never in one place too long. Reckon I won’t see you again.” Duo bites off the sentences, fighting down the shame, choking down the nausea that’s rising in his stomach. He hates this familiar sensation, the sickness of being used, of failing to control himself again.

Heero flicks a card at him, and Duo catches it out of impulse. A string of numbers cross the surface, and Duo raises an inquiring brow at Heero, whose expression never changes.

“You suit my needs. That’s not easy to find. Contact me.”

With that, Heero turns neatly on his heel and strides from the room. Duo stands in the center of the room, hands falling slowly to his sides, head bowed in shame and misery. He can feel the heavy eyes of his ghosts, disappointment palpable in their empty gazes. He turns, abruptly, and slams his fist into the wall. The plaster and his knuckles crack under the force of the blow, crumbles of white and streaks of red trickling down the wall. His throat closes on a helpless scream as he collapses to the carpet, sobs wracking his body. Curling around his bleeding hand, he bows his head against the wall. It’s never enough. He chokes back another shriek and jabs his other hand into the wall, pounding at the blank surface until he hears a crack in his knuckles, until the plaster is dark with his blood. It’s still not enough, and the tears that glitter on his cheeks are nothing compared to the aching void of his soul.


	3. A Host of Tomorrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heero is struggling for some semblance of control, shattering under the strain of so many impossible expectations. Duo is breaking beneath the weight of all of the sins he bears, unable to cope with all of the blood guilt on his soul. They both are desperate to find an outlet for their living nightmares. Redemption is a whipping post, a hair shirt, a long line of flagellants waiting to be punished. Redemption can only be achieved through pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my defense, this was supposed to be a porn-with-plot chapter. The original outline went something like "angst, sex, sex, sex, sex, angst" ... and then when I started writing it, character development jumped out and smacked me in the head. Of course, there's also porn. Fear not. Triggers may include: dubious consent, rough sex, breathplay.

Duo slowly nursed his hands back to health, a hellish week in which G tried a multitude of ways to figure out why they were injured. Duo tried everything. He tried holing up in the most impossibly disgusting, vile-smelling, out-of-the-way safehouse that he could find, one that he was pretty sure was condemned. He tried disabling his satellite phone and the tracking device on his gundam, a stunt he was relatively certain ‘Scythe resented him for. He tried ignoring the repaired sat phone and the increasingly obnoxious variety of ringtones that G remotely installed on it. The current favorite was an ancient earth tune, something about the singer neither giving him up nor letting him down. It is just past dawn when the phone awakens him again, where he curls on a couch of questionable cleanliness. He is almost certain that something had died on it at some point. He clamps his hands over his ears, fingers tangling in his unraveling braid.

As a groan leaks into the pillow beneath his face, the door of the cabin shrieks open. Duo switches from a sleepy, sun-warmed pile of blankets to a black blur, diving behind the couch and coming up in a crouch. He slams his hair out of his face with one hand as the other points a gun toward the intruder. His face is deadly calm, violet eyes wide and bright in his deathly pale skin. He always told people he had a bad reaction to killing. Made him all pale and unattractive… that and all of the mental side effects that he left out.

He lowers the gun with a frustrated sigh as he sees G’s frame in the shattered doorway. He huffs out his breath and runs a hand through his messy bangs, tucking the gun into the small of his back. Tugging his shirt down over the grip, he rounds the couch and takes a seat on the stained cushions. G steps further into the cabin, glancing around with a marked distaste.

“Was all of this really necessary, Duo?”

Duo meets his level gaze, face held carefully blank. He tucks his hands beneath his thighs, wincing as the healing gashes scrape the couch. Realizing that his silence is out of character, at least as far as the scientists and other faceless pilots were concerned, he flashes a bright smile and tilts his head.

“Just needed a little r&r, Prof! Get in touch with nature, return to my roots, all that happy crap.”

G shakes his head, sighing in exasperation. “We’re in the middle of a _war_ , Duo. We can’t afford ‘r&r,’ as you so charmingly call it, when we have missions to carry out. You will have plenty of time to rest when we need to lay low.”

“Got it, oh Captain my captain,” Duo replies smartly, snapping a playful salute to his commander.

He had forgotten the state of his hands, and G’s eyes narrow at the sight of the bruised knuckles, surfaces torn open and scabbed. The professor’s hand shoots out, faster than Duo anticipated, and snatches his wrist. Duo half-heartedly pulls at the restraining fingers, his body remembering with painful clarity the events that followed the last time he’d been grabbed like that. G peers at his hand, prodding the small bones of his fingers and palms, rotating his thumb and flexing his wrist. He purses his lips as he looks up from his examination.

“So this is why you’ve been avoiding me. I don’t suppose that I have to remind you that your obligations lie in being able to pilot your gundam. It wouldn’t do for you to permanently disable yourself. And you haven’t managed to do that, this time. You should be fine in a few days. I’m not going to ask how this happened, but I’d advise you not to do it again.”

Duo closes his eyes, a pair of feral sapphire eyes swimming behind his eyelids. He sees them in his dreams, in his waking moments of weakness. He sees them every time his hand pretends to be someone else, every time his back arches in pleasure. He has resisted the temptation thus far, the black numbers swimming on the blank white slate of his body, but he knows that his resistance is in part the sweet bitterness of pain that still swims through his veins. He has no illusions that, once he has healed and feels the bite of masochism rise like a tide in his body, he will be able to say no to the memory of those hands on his body. G notices the distance in his eyes and grunts in annoyance.

“I don’t want to know. But don’t let it be a distraction. Distractions get you killed.”

Duo lets a smile cross his face, an untamed and deadly thing. If the good professor had any idea of what would get Duo killed, it would likely surprise him. High on that list of things, among hundreds of mobile suits bent on his destruction, would be the face that Duo saw in the mirror every morning. Duo rubs his hand absently along his scarred wrist, a tiny frown line forming between his eyebrows. G nods curtly at him and turns toward the door.

“I’ll send you coordinates for your next mission. And please, Duo, pick a cleaner safe house next time. I’d hate to lose you to a plague after you’ve survived a war.”

 

* * *

 

 

The next week, Duo sits hunched over a laptop in a darker yet cleaner safehouse. So clean it might almost be considered sterile, he thinks, eyeing the empty room. There is a single window, a single door, the bare minimum he would allow for escape routes. He usually preferred two windows, but it was at the edge of town, as close to ‘Scythe as he could get. It holds a metal frame bed, a metal table, and a metal chair, a tiny bathroom and nothing else. Not even a closet – fortunately, the tattered duffle bag at the foot of the bed is the only luggage he has. He frowns at the furniture as he shifts on the chair, his sore muscles protesting the unyielding surface of the chair. His first mission back had been rough – successful, but even the easy missions left bruises across his chest like an abusive lover’s embrace. He presses a hand to the worst of the bruises, and the pressure brings a grimace to his lips. His eyes close as the ache sweeps over his body, and his hands begin to shake. He clenches them into fists, trying to still his hands on the keyboard.

A message flickers on the screen, cursor blinking happily at the end of an apathetically worded request for company. Duo can’t believe that he is resorting to this. A clinical, doctor’s appointment setup for a quick lay. A “yes, this is Duo Maxwell, and I would like to see Doctor Yuy… what’s it about? Oh, just a checkup. You see, I’ve been feeling this insatiable need to be in agonizing pain, and something about his bedside manner is just perfect.” He snorts at himself.

“Can’t believe I’m doing this…” he mutters, but hits send anyway.

His computer chirps cheerfully in confirmation and he scrubs his hands over his face, tugging at skin drawn tight over his high cheekbones. Toeing off his boots, he drags himself from the chair and staggers toward the bed. His whole body creaks in protest, urging him to collapse on the nearest horizontal surface. He slips out of his baggy black pants, shrugging off the long-sleeved button up shirt. The clothing he drops on the floor, leaving it in a pile at his feet. He catches the white collar and slides it out of his shirt, placing it reverently on his bag. Many soldiers wondered why, in their last moments, their assassin wore a priest’s collar and an expression of deadly compassion. Many soldiers who had tried to befriend him had asked, and received their answer at the point of a knife. Don’t ask. Never ask.

Duo collapses onto the bed, curling up on his side. A sliver of moonlight falls through the blinds and drifts across his face, setting silver highlights in his long braid. His face softens in sleep as his fingers twine through the end of his braid. The last conscious thought before he slides headfirst into darkness is a long-finger hand, pinning him to the bed and asking “how would you like to be taken?”

 

* * *

 

 

Duo awakens to a firm hand gripping the hair at the nape of his neck, tangled in the strands of his unraveling braid. A sharp breath hisses from between his teeth as he arches into the pressure, feeling another hand come to rest at the base of his spine. He’s pinned to the bed by his hips, bowed up off of the bed by his head. The skin on skin contact, low on his back, sends fire shooting through his body, heat pooling in his groin. Heero settles over him, legs and ass replacing the hand on his back, and blankets him in body heat. He squirms, rocking himself against the bed, aware that somewhere between unconsciousness and his current waking dreamstate, he had achieved a complete and aching erection.

A voice snarls in his ear, breath ghosting against his skin. “It’s been too long.” Duo whimpers, struggling half-heartedly beneath his weight, and Heero lifts up far enough for a breeze to drift between them. Goosebumps roll over Duo’s skin and he presses back, putting their bodies flush again and placing his ass against the stomach-tightening hardness of Heero’s cock. Heero slides a hand beneath them and drifts his palm down Duo’s shaft, dragging a twitch and a needy whine out of the long-haired boy.

“You need this just as much as I do,” Heero observes, feeling Duo’s skin become sweat slick and scorching.

“Yes…” Duo whispers, panting quietly as Heero’s fingers wrap tightly around the base of his cock.

A harsh laugh barks out of Heero’s throat and suddenly the weight is gone from Duo’s back. Duo is about to protest when he feels a pointed yank on his hair, and his hand automatically goes to cushion his scalp. Heero grabs his wrist in a crushing grip, pinning it to the bed with a low snarl.

“This isn’t about you, so don’t fucking try to stop me.”

Duo stills at the ferocity in his voice, eyes watering as he is dragged to the edge of the bed by his hair. Heero’s hand is still on his wrist, bones creaking beneath the force of his fingers. Heero grasps his shoulders and flips him, then pins him again with a hand in the center of his chest. Puzzled purple eyes stare at him as he climbs off of the bed, standing coldly at the edge of the mattress. Duo’s head starts to pound, trying to watch Heero as he hangs partially off of the bed, but Heero’s hand is intense and warning on his chest, nails digging into the skin above his heart. His instinct is to protest, but he can feel the pain creeping through his veins, tranquilizing him. He might still be inclined to stop Heero, but the erection laying heavy on his stomach gives lie to any claims that he isn’t enjoying this.

His vision is a little fuzzy, throbbing with the blood rushing to his head, but he licks his lips as he hears the metallic zing of a zipper being released. Heero releases himself from the confines of his pants, cock already gleaming with his arousal. He slides his palm toward the head, a low groan painting the tension of the room. Duo shifts on the bed, impatient, digging his hands into the mattress to keep from reaching for Heero. It drives him insane to watch this, to watch Heero bring himself pleasure, to see the lines of impatience and anger soften on that admittedly beautiful face. Heero’s hand lifts off of his chest, tipping Duo’s chin back, and his other hand steadies the head of his cock. He taps once on Duo’s jaw and the boy obediently opens his mouth, tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

Duo is swamped in sensation, insanely close to orgasm through sheer arousal. Heero’s head nudges at his mouth and Duo slides back a little bit more, eager lips wrapping around the shaft. Heero grunts as Duo immediately begins to work, tongue flicking along the length of his cock as clever lips slide and suction. Duo’s cheeks hollow, vacuum increasing as he draws more of Heero’s delightful rod into his mouth. He feels the head trigger his gag reflex and swallows compulsively, forcing down the impulse to pull back. Heero’s hands twitch, one hand fisting in his hair as the other cups the base of his throat.

There’s more than a hint of pressure in his hands, a stunning sting coming from his scalp and a slight loss of oxygen from the hand on his neck. Duo moans as the sensations overwhelm him, and the vibrations humming through him drag a snarl from Heero. Heero’s hips begin to rock, thrusting himself into the sinful heat of Duo’s mouth. Duo’s vision is black around the edges as the lack of breath starts to get to him, and he closes his eyes against the dizziness. The hand around his throat releases, and he bucks off the bed as it reappears around his cock.

Duo’s efforts double as Heero’s fingers tighten around him, stroking with that almost familiar roughness. Stars explode behind his eyelids as his lips reach the base of Heero’s cock, the intensity of the moment running through him like an electric current. He can feel Heero pulsing, the thrusts of his hips becoming erratic, movements of his hand becoming less coordinated. Duo’s own hips start rocking, insanely close as he is to orgasm, and he tastes the first burst of salty fluid against his tongue. Heero’s hand stills for a moment on his cock as his climax overwhelms him, his other hand twisting in Duo’s hair. He forces himself deeper, almost too deep, and Duo swears his throat is bruising as he swallows around the thick shaft. Heero pulls back, removing himself from the wet heat of Duo’s mouth. Heero’s eyes darken as he watches Duo lick the seed from the corners of his mouth, lips swollen from being stretched so wide.

Duo stares at him, still upside down, violet gaze half-lidded with his own arousal. He parts those flushed lips, wets them with his tongue, and whispers, “please…”

Heero’s eyes flick down to his hand, still wrapped beneath the swollen head of Duo’s erection. He squeezes his fingers, far past the boundaries of pleasure, and starts a punishing rhythm. Duo arches off of the bed, mouth open in a silent scream. His eyes are clamped shut, hands fisted in the sheets, painfully close to the edge of climax. Heero finishes him with a fierce twist of his wrist, and Duo explodes with an echoing shriek, body tightening like a snapping bowstring. Heero releases him, immediately vanishing into the bathroom to clean the fluid from his hand. Duo crumples onto the bed, chest heaving with his gasping breaths, heart racing in his ribcage.

Heero never returns to the bed. As the door shuts behind him with an agonizing silence, Duo doesn’t even have the strength to split his hand open again. He drags himself fully onto the mattress, tucks himself around the shards of his dignity, and sobs himself to sleep.  


	4. But It's Better If You Don't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heero is struggling for some semblance of control, shattering under the strain of so many impossible expectations. Duo is breaking beneath the weight of all of the sins he bears, unable to cope with all of the blood guilt on his soul. They both are desperate to find an outlet for their living nightmares. Redemption is a whipping post, a hair shirt, a long line of flagellants waiting to be punished. Redemption can only be achieved through pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More asshole!Heero. I'll bet you're surprised. More emotionally damaged Duo, another surprise. And of course, great sex. All the time, great sex. I swear, there's plot in here somewhere. Moving into canon plot, obviously with some adjustments. We're at the beginning of the series. Triggers include: extremely rough sex, dubious content, hints of self-inflicted pain (not graphic)

You’d think he would have made the connection by now. The whole, hello Duo, every time you let this admittedly gorgeous man fuck you, it ends badly. And not a little badly, not a tiny storm cloud raining out a corner of your parade badly. More like a hurricane drowned everyone in your parade and permanently damaged all of the buildings in the area, and then a tornado came and dropped a cow on you badly.

Which is what Duo might have been thinking about, had he not been deep in the programming schematics of his Gundam. He sits in front of the window of yet another soulless safehouse, laptop perched on a rickety table. He’s hunched over the keyboard, lower back beginning to ache in the first protests of hours spent at that screen. The chair leans ever so slightly to the side, one leg caught in a crack on the floorboard, so Duo is forced to perch precariously on the edge of the seat. A small frown creases his forehead, fingers paused on the keys as he puzzles out a particularly complicated bit of code. He couldn’t afford for these glitches to keep happening, especially not with the intensity of the battles he’d been facing.

The enemy was becoming cleverer, mobile suits acquiring better technology, the Alliance catching on to the Gundam’s weaknesses and strategies. It was concerning, more than he ever let on to G. Duo needed Scythe to, as much as possible, predict the enemy. To follow his commands almost before he decided what he needed to do. He needed Scythe to be flawless…

 _But I’m not a flawless pilot_ , _and that’s the problem_.

The door creaking open behind Duo comes as a surprise, and he automatically flips the laptop closed, dropping it off the table into his bag. He swings the bag over his shoulder as he drops off the chair, yanking it off the ground. He flings it into the air and kicks it at the door, landing in a low crouch, peering with feral eyes through his messy bangs. He is even more surprised to find Heero rolling out of the way of the chair, deflecting it with one hand. The chair smashes into the wall, shattering, and Heero throws up his arm to protect his eyes.

“What the _fuck_ was that?”

Duo has the sense to look abashed, letting his bag slide gently to the ground as he rises out of his crouch. He rubs the back of his head, an apologetic smile smoothing its way across his face. “I forgot that I asked you to come. You surprised me.”

“So you throw a chair at the door? What do your visitors usually do?”

Duo laughs nervously, shrugging slightly. Desperate for distraction, he finally notices Heero’s clothing. He is in a peculiar suit, the type usually worn by private school students, complete with vest and stuffy, high-collared shirt.

“What on earth are you wearing?”

Duo swears that he must be hallucinating, because if he’s not then a shadow of red is creeping across Heero’s devastatingly high cheekbones. Heero is frowning at him, eyes almost pained, and Duo can’t tell if it’s the embarrassment or something else. Duo steps closer, padding across the room to sidle into Heero’s personal space. He wishes he hadn’t. Heero’s deep blue eyes are shadowed, sunken into his painfully thin face. His skin is pale, drawn tight over his bones, and he carries himself like a ghost, like a man with a death sentence.

“God… Heero, what happened?”

Heero’s eyes narrow, the light in them vanishing. “Nothing.”

“…you look terrible. What’s wrong? Do you want to talk about it?”

Heero makes a negating gesture with his hand, slender fingers slicing through the air. Duo steps back out of his space, holding up his own hands in a placating gesture.

“Easy, Heero. I’m just trying to help.”

Heero shifts forward, moving until the air between their bodies is charged with tension. Duo’s breath hitches, and he finds himself leaning into the heat of Heero’s uniform clad form. Heero runs the back of his hand down Duo’s cheek, knuckles brushing the wisps of hair escaping from the other man’s braid. He leans in a little bit closer, grazing his lips over Duo’s jawline, his soft exhalation hot against Duo’s ear. Duo shivers, a low noise emerging from suddenly dry lips.

“You want to make me feel better?” He waits for Duo’s muted noise of assent and then continues, voice low and calm. “Then make me come.”

Duo jerks back, the moment broken. Hurt edges his purple eyes, lips drawn into a tight, thin line. The sharp sting of the emotional disconnect is almost as fierce as the crack of his skull against the unyielding metal walls of his Gundam. He closes his eyes, letting the tortured pleasure of the pain wash over him. Another shudder wracks his body as the need surfaces, that hint of agony the only trigger required to feed his addiction. His eyelids slide open to reveal a haunted brightness, and he bows his head in acknowledgement of Heero’s words.

“As you wish.”

And he slides to his knees, hands skimming down the front of Heero’s body. His fingers trace the lithe form beneath the ridiculous uniform, and Duo has a moment to regret that he’s never seen Heero naked. Duo settles into place, resting on his heels, braid brushing the bottoms of his bare feet. His hands are hooked into the waistband of Heero’s pants, violet eyes fixed on the blank expression of the man above him. Duo’s palms slip lower, glide over the growing bulge in Heero’s slacks, and Heero’s eyes switch from empty pools to a banked flame. Licking his lips, Duo leans forward to nuzzle at Heero’s erection, grinning as he feels the other man’s cock harden swiftly against his cheek. He presses his mouth into Heero’s length, exhaling pure heat into the fabric, and a groan echoes out into the room. Heero fists one hand into Duo’s hair, hand gripping convulsively.

Duo takes pity on Heero, deftly unbuttoning his pants and tugging them down. He runs a hand down Heero’s cock, reveling in the satin heat of the skin against his palm. Humming in appreciation, he leans forward and exhales once more, a mist of breath coating the head. Heero tugs impatiently at Duo’s hair, rocking his hips forward so that he slips between Duo’s parted lips. Duo chuckles slightly and braces himself with his hands on Heero’s thighs, feeling muscles clench and quiver beneath his fingers. He sinks down toward the curls at the base of Heero’s cock, tongue flickering along the vein underneath.

Hollowing his cheeks, he drops all the way down on an inhale, pressing his nose into the downy hair. Heero grunts above him, fingers clutching at his hair, and again as Duo’s clever fingers rise to cradle his balls. Duo begins a leisurely rhythm, dragging his lips and tongue across Heero’s length as he gently rolls Heero’s balls in his hands. A burst of salty fluid reaches his tongue and he would smirk in triumph if his mouth weren’t full. He can just feel the vein running down Heero’s shaft begin to pulse as he is abruptly yanked off the ground. Heero’s eyes meet his, flaming with heat, and then his hands are divesting Duo of clothing. Duo barely has a moment to process the change of plans when Heero’s hands are beneath his thighs, lifting him into the air. He wraps his legs around Heero’s slim waist, balancing himself against the other boy, and then Heero is pressing back, slamming them both against the wall. A grunt escapes Duo’s lips as the air is crushed from his lungs, flattened between the unyielding plaster and the sculpted wall of muscle in front of him.

The pain centers him, and Duo feels his neglected cock twitch in interest. Heero shoves his hand between them to grasp Duo, and the long-haired boy moans at the confident strokes along his shaft. Duo draws in a sharp breath as he feels the blunt pressure at his entrance, as Heero’s grip lightens and gravity begins to pull him down. He throws back his head at the agonizing pain, at the tearing that pushes the limits of his tolerance. Biting down on a scream, he slams the back of his skull against the plaster, praying that the pain will distract from the blood streaming over Heero’s cock. But Heero’s hand is there and the crimson haze in his head is blossoming like a blood-fed flower, and his body draws tight as a violin’s string.

Heero’s breath becomes ragged, his exhales closer to snarls of pleasure, and Duo can feel his orgasm twisting like a spring in his abdomen with every thrust. Heero bites down on the join of Duo’s shoulder and neck, teeth sinking easily into the yielding flesh, and Duo shrieks as his climax crashes over him. Seed splashes, molten heat between them, and the ecstatic tightening of his muscles triggers Heero as well. Heero comes with a wild growl, muffled into Duo’s skin, and his hips twitch in the last moments of his bliss.

Duo’s legs unwrap from Heero’s body as he sinks to the ground, a wince crossing his features as he feels the blood slick his thighs. He glances down with a sick bitterness rising in his throat, sees the blood spatter across Heero’s pants like a gunshot wound. Heero notices his gaze, and follows it, and Duo has to rush to the bathroom as a smirk of satisfaction crosses the other boy’s face.

He falls in front of the toilet, knees colliding with the porcelain surface, and bows his head in shame. The blood spatter flashes across his vision again and his stomach heaves, pouring its contents into the water. He lays his feverish head against the cool rim, eyes closing on tears that he refuses to release. In the distance, he is vaguely aware of the door clicking shut.

 

* * *

 

 

A few weeks later, Duo sits hunched in Scythe’s cockpit, laptop wedged between the console and his knees. He pokes at the keys, peering around the screen to prod at a few buttons on the dashboard of his Gundam. Scythe makes an annoyed beeping noise and Duo spits out a curse, slamming his fist into the wall. He swears again, cradling his hand, and sticks his tongue out at a second malfunction noise. He’s reaching out to input another command when the screen fuzzes, G’s voluminous hair fills the screen, and his nose pokes at the camera. He backs up a bit, revealing a hint of laboratory in the background, and Duo waves cheerfully at him.

“Duo, it’s G.” Duo snorts quietly to himself. G still hasn’t quite figured out that he’s not leaving a voice message yet. “Our scanners picked up an Alliance transmission. A suit sank into the Pacific, and they’re claiming it’s like nothing they’ve ever seen before. You should look into it, maybe see if you can salvage it. I’ve sent you the coordinates.”

Duo snaps a smart salute, packing away his laptop beneath his seat. G never waits for a reply, assuming automatic obedience. The console screen fuzzes out, revealing a map with a flashing green dot. He slides his arms through his harness, buckling it and snugging the straps down tight. His hands slide around the grips, a fierce grin spreading across his face as the engines rev. There’s nothing quite like the thrum of power, vibrating up into his hands, shivering up through the seat until he has to clench his teeth to keep them from rattling. It’s the only time he feels alive (that and when Heero has him pinned to the bed, but he doesn’t let himself think about that for long). He taps a flight path into Scythe’s controls and sits back for the ride. An electric current almost like arousal hums through him as Scythe gains air, and he laughs out loud.

It’s only a short while later that the ocean stretches out beneath him, a rippling blanket the color of Heero’s eyes. He shakes the thought out of his mind, and the concern on its tail that reminds him that he hasn’t heard from the blue-eyed boy in a long while. Scythe beeps out a proximity warning, and his hands snap out to the controls. Autopilot disengages and the black Gundam slips beneath the waves, drifting toward the ocean floor like a sleek and deadly predator. Scythe beeps again, alerting him to the presence of other mobile suits near the fallen target. Duo unchambers the thermal scythe, sweeping it through the water as he maneuvers his mobile suit behind the Alliance troops.

They’re in some sort of new aquatic suits, red creatures with grasping claws instead of hands and a teal suit overseeing the operation. Duo snorts to himself, slicing through one of the suits with less effort than a blade through grass. The other two turn toward him, pilots panicking over the hacked radio channels. Duo can hear their frantic screams, their futile threats, and a maniacal laugh tears out of his throat as he destroys the second red suit. The final suit races toward him, pilot screeching about revenge and honor. Duo bows his head, whispering a prayer, and then jabs the controls forward with a snap of his wrists. The other suit is quicker, quicker than he anticipated, and Scythe is temporarily stunned by the force of the impact. Duo curses as he rockets forward, head bouncing off of the low ceiling. His suit wasn’t designed for aquatic manipulation, and he lets Scythe drift toward the sand, hearing the other pilot’s victorious shouts in his ears.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned…” And Scythe rises from the floor like an avenging angel, metal fist jabbing through the center of the other suit. The pilot’s final screams echo in his ears, and Duo wrenches Deathscythe away from the death throes of his enemy. His target lies on the ocean floor, flashing in a strange but almost familiar sequence.

“This suit looks almost like Deathscythe… and that looks like a self-destruct pattern. That won’t do.”

Duo disables the detonation with a jab of the thermal scythe, realizing with pleasure that the other suit is set up almost identically to his own. It would be a perfect back-up for repairs on Deathscythe, especially if it were made of gundanium. He lashes Scythe to the new suit, swimming out of his cockpit to check the connections before knifing toward the surface. Breaking above the waves, he checks on the progress of the suits before swimming toward a nearby dock.

A scream has him doubling his efforts, and he squints through the salt spray at the twin figures above. He launches himself up the rusted metal ladder, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the salt-slicked rungs. Throwing himself onto the planks of the dock, he leaps to his feet, tugging his gun from the small of his back. At the end of the dock, a man mirrors his actions, cocking a gun at a beautiful and terrified young woman. The woman’s voice rises in horror and Duo reacts instinctively, finger squeezing the trigger. The man spins away from the woman, his gun clattering to the dock. He clutches his hand to his bicep, eyes narrowing accusingly at Duo’s distant figure.

“It’s pretty evident to anyone that you’re the bad guy here,” Duo says wryly, half to himself.

The other man lifts his head, recognition dawning in his eyes, and scrambles for the fallen weapon. The woman shrieks again, pleading with them to stop. Pleading with _him_ to stop, as the stranger lifts the gun to try and kill him.

Duo tucks his finger around the trigger again, tightness in his chest. “Don’t do that!”

Duo isn’t sure who he is talking to, but the screaming doesn’t cease. The man doesn’t stop, and Duo winces as he shoots the stranger again, this time in the leg. The woman drops to one knee, shielding her attacker from Duo’s gun, ripping the hem of her clothing into strips. She glares defiantly at Duo as she begins to bind up the other man’s wounds, and Duo’s mouth gapes. This woman is saving someone who meant to kill her. Stockholm Syndrome much? At that moment, Scythe breaks the surface like a strange, shimmering aquatic creature, the other suit still strapped to its chest, and the woman turns to stare at them. Thinking quickly, Duo launches a flare into the air, popping the top off as he chucks it. A brilliant light shatters the shadows, and the woman ducks down, shielding her eyes. Duo takes a moment to examine his enemy, and his heart clenches hard in his chest.

It’s Heero.

Heero in all of his dark glory, eyes glaring at him with an intensity bordering on hatred. Heero, lithe body curled on the tattered wooden boards, clutching at his bleeding arm and leg. Heero, with blue satin wrapped around his wounds like a knight wearing his lady’s favors to a tournament. Heero, who had recognized him and still leveled a gun at his head. Heero, who had vanished off the face of the earth after their last brutal encounter, without so much as a goodbye. Duo drags in a heavy breath.

“It’s better if you don’t know,” Duo calls to the woman, voice tired, but his violet gaze is fixed on Heero.

Heero’s mouth twists in a sneer and suddenly he is moving, a blur of pale skin and blood and shredded clothes. He lands on a hanging platform, sprinting to the controls of a trio of torpedoes. Duo’s eyes widen in horror. _He’s going to destroy my suit._

“That’s my mobile suit. It is my mission to protect it.”

Heero’s voice is flat, apathetic, and he slams his palm down on the release button. Time seems to slow for Duo, as his best friend is destroyed. Both suits are caught in the explosion, and Duo numbly sinks to his knees. His coping skill. His only friend. The only thing he could rely on. The only tie to his home colony. He barely registers the woman running off, without even a thank you, barely notices as Heero collapses and slides bonelessly off of the platform. The splash brings Duo back to consciousness, and his dull eyes register Heero lying in the water.

He shakes his head, furious at himself. He should leave Heero there. Leave the lying, traitorous bastard face down in the water. Leave him to drown in all the misery that he created. Heero. A Gundam pilot. A murderer of women. A liar. Out of the three, Duo isn’t sure which he despises more. Still, he can’t leave the other boy there to die. He dives cleanly into the water and gathers up the limp body, shoving it up the ladder and back onto the dock.

Duo hauls himself out of the rocking waves, shivering as a chill sets in. He isn’t sure whether the icy water or the loss of his beloved Deathscythe is affecting him, and he hugs his knees to his chest. Heero stills beside him, returning slowly to consciousness, and Duo fixes him with a deadly stare.

“You,” Heero whispers, voice hoarse with pain and exhaustion.

“Why did you try to shoot me? You recognized me. I saw it on your face.”

There is a long pause. If not for the glitter of his barely opened eyes, Duo would think that Heero had passed out again. “You shot me first.”

“You were trying to kill that girl! She was terrified. What’s wrong with you?! And then you destroyed my suit. And yours, apparently.”

“She knew too much,” Heero replies, quietly, as if he resents having to answer to anyone. His eyes flicker shut, the light dying in the closing orbs.

Duo’s hand slips out to feel at his ribs, checking his breathing. It’s there, barely, and Duo levels a gaze at the unconscious boy. “I know too much, too. Will you kill me next?”


	5. Good Thing I'm A Leprechaun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heero is struggling for some semblance of control, shattering under the strain of so many impossible expectations. Duo is breaking beneath the weight of all of the sins he bears, unable to cope with all of the blood guilt on his soul. They both are desperate to find an outlet for their living nightmares. Redemption is a whipping post, a hair shirt, a long line of flagellants waiting to be punished. Redemption can only be achieved through pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same notes, different day. Heero being an emotionally stunted BAMF, Duo being an over-emotional hot mess. Canon plotline. And surprisingly, no sex scene in this one.

Duo paces outside of the Alliance military hospital, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He casts a glance up at the building and frowns, violet eyes narrowing in thought. He knows that he should just leave Heero in there, knows that it’s entirely too dangerous to sneak in. At the same time… he can’t throw the questions that claw up his back like rabid animals. Why? Why didn’t Heero tell him that he was a Gundam pilot? Why did he destroy their suits? Why was he trying to kill that girl? Duo shakes his head, violently, braid whipping around him to thump against his chest. Heero is a distraction, a potentially lethal one. It’s bad enough that he’s become Duo’s choice source of pain. It’s bad enough that Duo’s become addicted to Heero’s touch. But now this? Considering stealing into an enemy-ridden hospital to rescue the boy who destroyed his only defense against the Alliance?

A defeated sigh hisses from between his lips. He’d already decided, from the moment that he was forced to choose between concealing the damaged Gundams and protecting Heero’s limp and nearly lifeless form. He had to get the suits to safety – it was the only option. Pilots were replaceable, but gundanium was a scarcity and those suits were impossibly rare. So he had chosen, had climbed into Scythe and forced the battered mecha to haul its tattered brother to shore. He’d left them in a forest, carefully concealed, and made a hurried phone call to his mechanic as he ran back to the docks. He arrived just in time to see Alliance troops swarming the docks, dragging Heero’s body unceremoniously into a truck. They hadn’t even put him on a stretcher, just thrown him on the floor of the truck and climbed in around him. Hadn’t even looked down.

Duo’s hands clench into fists at the memory, the image of Heero’s tangled limbs, blood flecked and wrapped in blue satin, flashing across his vision. He throws one more defiant glance at the front of the hospital and then vanished into the shadows, making his way through the alley to the back of the building.

 

* * *

 

 

The screen next to Heero flickers. He tamps down a thrill of surprise, heartbeat leaping for a moment before he ruthlessly suppresses it. His eyes flit to the observing scientist, who doesn’t appear to have noticed, and he exhales in relief. Quickly, he tenses all of the muscles in his body and strains against the straps pinning him to the table. The leather creaks, metal bending beneath him, but he can’t quite get enough leverage to break free. He sinks back to the cool surface beneath him, eyes sliding to the screen besides him. Duo’s image fuzzes across the surface, and the other boy gives him a jaunty wave. There isn’t any sound, but Heero can read lips. At the moment, he very much wishes that he couldn’t, because the long-haired boy is, to be quite frank, pissing him off.

“Got yourself in a bit of a predicament here, I see. I would have just left you, but I have some questions to ask.”

Heero turns his face away, closing his eyes against the shame sweeping through him. He failed his mission. He failed to kill the girl, he failed to keep his suit a secret, and he failed to destroy it, if he’s not mistaken. And then, to put a topper on the cake, he’d been captured, unconscious from the bullet wounds… wounds inflicted by the boy who was evidently here to rescue him. Heero grits his teeth, refusing to acknowledge the building exploding around him, structure shuddering under the series of detonations. The wall across from him implodes, plaster spraying across the room, bits scattering across the table.

A voice floats across the room. “So, you want to tell me about that suit?”

Heero grunts wordlessly, still looking away from Duo. Finally, he drags his eyes over to the other boy, smothering the glad stutter in his pulse when he sees the familiar face.

“Are you here to kill me?” Heero’s voice is tired, ragged. He is so ready for this all to be over.

“To kill you? Why would I kill you?”

“I failed. Don’t ask questions. Just finish the job.”  

“I absolutely will not. We need you. We need more Gundams, and we need more Gundam pilots. I think the damage you did can be repaired. I’ll help you get your suit battle ready again, and you can join me.” Duo forces a false cheerfulness into his words, masking the urgency thrumming through his system. He knows the bombs must have alerted the whole building to his presence.

“I don’t ‘join’ people. I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. And I don’t want to help you.” Heero’s lip curls. “What I want, what you can’t give me, is to be in control of my goddamn life again. The only way I can make that happen is by dying. Now if you would be so happy to oblige…”

Duo appears beside him, popping into his range of vision, braid swinging over his shoulder to trail over Heero’s legs. A frown wrinkles his forehead, violet eyes shining with concern. He runs his hand over Heero’s shoulder. Heero fights back a shudder, pushes down the goosebumps rising on his skin, and shrugs the hand off.

“Don’t.” Heero’s voice cracks, low and hoarse.

A pause, then. “Fine.” Duo’s voice, just as low, quiet and hurt. “But I’m not going to kill you.”

Duo examines the straps around his wrists, then moves down the table to peer at the leather binding his ankles. He flicks the tail of his braid behind him, and Heero grunts in annoyance at the sweep of relief and disappointment that floods him.

“So how do you get out of this, anyway?” Duo is mumbling, tugging at one of the leg restraints.

Heero reaches down, ignoring Duo’s shocked exclamation, and plucks the knife from the other boy’s hand. Duo reaches out, grasping at Heero’s tattered and bleeding wrist, but Heero is already in motion, slicing through the remaining straps and sliding gracefully from the table. He runs toward the hole in the wall, not checking to see if Duo is following, and ducks his head through the opening. Duo’s hand rests on his arm as they check the hallway for enemies – soldiers flooding down one end, a dead end at the other. Duo grabs his wrist, the uninjured one, and hauls him toward the window. He chucks a grenade as they near the wall and they both fling themselves to the floor as the side of the building disintegrates. Duo shoves himself to his feet, shoving a parachute pack into Heero’s chest, and they burst into motion, soldiers shouting threats and profanities behind them.

One minute there is sterile linoleum beneath their feet, and the next minute they are flying headlong into open air, the building falling away from them. Duo yanks out his thermal scythe, setting it spinning like helicopter blades. His descent slows measurably, and he has just an instant to appreciate the drifting sensation before Heero plummets past him. The pack is on Heero’s back, but the other boy is falling, limply, not even moving to pull the ripcord. For a panicked moment, Duo is certain that Heero has fallen unconscious, as he can see the blood still streaming in ribbons down Heero’s hand.

“Release your chute! What are you doing?!”

Heero’s head moves toward him ever so slightly, but the boy continues to freefall. Duo closes his eyes, a pained grimace crossing his features. He doesn’t know if he has it in him to watch another person die. Especially not a person who he has been so… intimate with. Distantly, he hears the snap and billow of fabric as the parachute rips out of the pack, and he breathes a quiet sigh of thanks. As he opens his eyes again, however, he notices that they are too close to the ground, that the chute was released entirely too late. On purpose?  

He throws out his hand, as if that is going to stop Heero’s rapid descent, and lets out a wordless shout. Heero crashes into the ground, body landing with a sickening crack, and rolls violently down the remainder of the cliff. Duo lands, staring mutely for a moment at Heero’s crumpled form. The other boy doesn’t move. He collapses the scythe, folding it in on itself, and straps it across his back. Heero stirs, a groan of pain seeping up from his body.

Duo’s voice is carefully controlled, laced with fury. “I understand that you want to die, but maybe you could think of another way… and not in front of me.”

Heero levers himself to his feet, and thinks he catches a ‘you stupid prick’ muttered from the long-haired boy. His body protests the movement, and he’s in the process of ignoring it as his leg collapses. Glancing down to confirm, he swears quietly under his breath. His leg is clearly and very painfully broken. Another failure. He grits his teeth and attempts a step, and his leg buckles beneath him. The ground rushes toward him, and he throws his hands out to catch him just as an arm encircles his waist, halting his fall. Heero’s body hums happily at the heat radiating from Duo, and he shoves against the long-haired boy, a frown creasing his face.

“I don’t need your help!”

A snort escapes Duo as he supports Heero’s weight, his arm the only thing keeping Heero on his feet. “Look, I’m the only friend you’ve got right now. I could leave you on this beach for the Alliance troops to find – again – but as I said, we need you and your suit.” He pauses. “I’d hoped we were beyond this.”

Heero snarls quietly, no longer trying to push free but leaning pointedly away from his helper. “I don’t even know you.” And before the other boy can do much more than open his mouth, “and I don’t care to.”

Duo grits his teeth at the all-too-familiar emotional jab, and the two boys limp down the beach toward freedom.

 

* * *

 

 

Duo is perched on a shipping crate, feet dangling beneath him. He kicks for a moment, feeling his boots thunk against the wooden slats, and grins. Sometimes acting like a kid is just too much fun. Heero’s grunt catches his attention and he glances over to find the other boy, both hands on the ankle of his injured leg, pulling.

“You need help over there, buddy?”

Heero ignores him, noises of exertion echoing across the deck. Duo shakes his head, wincing as the separate bone cracks back into place under Heero’s grip. Heero’s sigh of pain drifts up to his ears.

“I don’t know if I can take much more of this,” Duo mutters to himself. “Murdering innocents, destroying my suit, trying to kill himself, and now refusing medical treatment in favor of setting his own leg? Sheesh. This is just ridiculous.”

Heero pulls himself to his feet, eyes narrowing in concentration as he carefully puts weight on his injured leg. The limb holds, and he smirks in pained satisfaction as he limps off in the direction of the mobile suit bay. Duo leaps off of the crates, landing nimbly on his feet, and trails after Heero.

“Are you ever going to answer my questions?”

Heero doesn’t even bother to look at him, but continues his slow tread toward the Gundams. “Which questions?”

“The ones I asked in the hospital. Why did you destroy our Gundams? Who are you? And why do you act like my help is going to kill you?”

“No.” And Heero clambers up the chest of his reclining Gundam, disappearing into the inner workings of the suit.

Duo climbs up Deathscythe’s torso, propping himself against the smooth metal surface. He lays himself out, stretching full length along his Gundam’s chest, and murmurs happily to himself. He’s spent so much time up here, just him and his buddy, talking to the stars, to his suit, to himself. Some people might call him crazy but the mecha is the only thing he has left. His only family, his only friend, his only tie to the past. He hears an aggrieved noise from the other suit, a protesting creak of metal, and a short struggle. There’s a clang as some sort of tool drops into the interior of the Gundam, and Duo lifts his head to peer at the opening.

“Do you need help?”

“No.” Heero’s voice sounds hollow and annoyed, wandering from the bowels of the metal creature.

“Why did I even bother to rescue you?” Duo wonders aloud. “You don’t need anyone, you spend all of your time ignoring me, you refuse my help, and all you really want me for is-”

Heero interrupts him as he is about to extol the virtues of their physical encounters. “Can you keep it down over there? …and not mention _that_?”

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Duo growls, voice dripping with sarcasm to conceal the hurt that strikes him at the disgust in Heero’s words.

Heero never responds, and Duo stalks out of the room, trying to escape the mocking voice in his head that reminds him, ‘sex is all that you’re really good for, anyway.’

Despite the roiling in his gut as he slinks from the hangar, he doesn’t say no later – when midnight rolls around, and the familiar sharpness of Heero’s grasp yanks him from sleep and beckons his libido to respond.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s been only a handful of days when Duo catches Heero hunched over in front of a computer. The other boy is listening to a transmission, screen fuzzing in and out of clarity. The mechanical voice is just droning out when Duo strides in, just in time to hear Heero’s nearly robotic voice snap out, “Mission Accepted.”

Duo stops dead in his tracks, dread rising in his chest like a tide of darkness. Heero’s leg couldn’t possibly be healed completely, despite what their extracurricular activities would suggest, and even if he possessed impossible medical feats, his mecha is nowhere near repaired.

“You have a mission?” Duo manages to ask, proud of how level his voice is. His hands are beginning to shake. Heero grunts in acknowledgement, already tapping away at the keys, searching for more information on the base that he’s scheduled to demolish. “But that’s impossible. Your Gundam isn’t even repaired yet. You’ve got a ton of work left to do. No one could finish that in time.”

“Maybe you couldn’t,” Heero sneers, lip curled ever so slightly as he slams the laptop shut.

The disdainful expression is still on his face when he rises from the chair, brushing past Duo to stride out the door. His step is quick and determined, face smoothing into a blank mask as he moves toward the Gundam’s bay. He hears Duo’s steps behind him, faltering slightly.

“What is that even supposed to mean?”

Duo knows that the pain is leaking into his voice, but he can’t help it. He feels strung out, emotionally scraped raw from throwing himself time and time again at the unrelenting wall of Heero’s apathy. Heero doesn’t even stop to answer him, throwing open the door to the hangar and leaping onto his suit’s foot.

“Heero, wait. Jesus. What’s wrong with you?” Duo waits out the silence for as long as he can, before he flings the only thing he can at Heero’s retreating back. The only thing that ever gets a response from him. “What, I’m good enough for you in bed but nowhere else?!”

Heero hesitates for just a moment, shoulders stiffening. It sickens him that he keeps going back to Duo, a fact that he would much rather forget in the light of day. He’s a soldier – he’s not supposed to need other people, and he’s especially not supposed to need them so uncontrollably. Another part of his life that he has no control over. He hopes no one heard; the last thing he needs right now is for someone to report to J that he’s engaging in an illicit liaison with another boy, possibly the enemy. He scans the area, makes sure that no one heard, and nods in satisfaction. Without answering his waiting companion, he drops down into the cockpit of his Gundam and vanishes from Duo’s sight.


	6. Call Me Hopeless, But Not Romantic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heero is struggling for some semblance of control, shattering under the strain of so many impossible expectations. Duo is breaking beneath the weight of all of the sins he bears, unable to cope with all of the blood guilt on his soul. They both are desperate to find an outlet for their living nightmares. Redemption is a whipping post, a hair shirt, a long line of flagellants waiting to be punished. Redemption can only be achieved through pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asshole!Heero, Emotional Masochist!Duo.   
> And now for something completely different!   
> (and an extra long update as apology for the long wait)

Heero spent every waking moment in his Gundam, working furiously to repair the damage that the torpedoes had done. And Duo, if he was being honest with himself, had spent a great deal of time sulking. Sulking and sneaking off to the galley to get quietly but thoroughly intoxicated. Heero had not initiated a midnight visit since Duo’s outburst, and Duo was well enough in control of his pain addiction to resist the urge to seek him out. Duo was beginning to think that being connected to Heero was such a massive act of masochism that he wouldn’t need the sex anymore. Of course, the sex was… well… to be honest, mind-blowing.

Duo shakes his head violently, trying to rattle the memories out of his brain before his half-hard cock stirs fully awake. It’s bad enough that he’s spent the past few days spinning around the issue of Heero’s utter apathy without adding the shame of having to jerk off because Heero won’t fuck him. He bows his head, fingers lacing into the chocolate strands, and curls himself into a ball on the chair. Lately he’s felt like he is spiraling out of control. The magnet pull of Heero’s presence is maddening, and he knows that he is only the smallest planet orbiting the other boy’s sun. A silent scream of frustration rises in Duo’s chest and he bites down on the helpless noise, fingers tightening in his hair. He twists his hands, the slight sting of his scalp grounding him once more.

He doesn’t know how much longer he can do this. Yanking his hands out of his hair, he staggers to his feet and storms out of the room to wander the hallways. Moments later, he finds himself drifting past the massive doors to the hangar bay. He pauses, running his hand over the door, fighting the tug of desire that draws him constantly toward Heero. Sighing softly, he gives in and opens the door. His eyes fly to the white suit that reclines on the floor, surface nearly glowing in the low light. He hears the faint clang and rattle of tools, but a frown creases his face at the direction of the noise. He could have sworn that it was coming from ‘Scythe.

His hands clench into fists. He shakes his head, disbelieving, unwilling or unable to comprehend that a fellow pilot could sink so low.

“Heero.” His voice is soft, deadly, eyes descending to a midnight amethyst. A darkness seems to cloak him as he draws his fury in close around him, defending him.

Heero emerges from Deathscythe’s hatch, arms filled with equipment. He glances over, notices Duo, and stops in his tracks. A feral grin spreads across Duo’s face. He knows exactly what he looks like. He is called Shinigami for a reason, and that reason is striding purposefully toward Heero, shadows deepening as he passes. Heero assesses him, holding Deathscythe’s precious components tight to his chest. His face is calm, emotionless, and he deliberately turns away from the long-haired boy to place the parts between his Gundam’s feet.

“Heero,” Duo says again, voice so controlled that the tension hums beneath his words.

The boy pivots on his heels, empty arms folding across his chest. There is no shame on his face, no sense of wrongdoing.

Duo draws in a deep breath, trying to settle the roiling anger in his gut. “What are you doing?”

“Your eyes work just as well as mine,” Heero comments disdainfully.

And Duo loses it.

“Yes, they do. And what I see is one of the most vile, sacrilegious acts I have ever laid eyes on. You sick, sadistic bastard, that is my _suit_! We have plenty of parts here. We could have easily gotten you anything you needed, and _you had no goddamn right to go near my Deathscythe_.”

Heero shrugs one shoulder, uncaring. Duo steps back, afraid that if he is within arm’s reach of Heero, he will skin the boy.

“You were getting everything you wanted. Everything you asked for. Food, tools, parts for your suit, sex whenever you found the time to demand it-” Heero winces, the motion almost imperceptible, “so why exactly would waiting have been so bad?”

Heero lowers his head, deep brown hair flopping over his eyes. His body seems to stiffen, and he lifts his ocean blue eyes to watch Duo’s face. “The only thing I want from you right now is the parts I pulled from your suit. That’s the only useful thing you had to offer.”

The anger drains out of Duo like water from an unplugged drain. His shoulders slump, defeat flooding his exhausted form. Heero turns away from him once more, beginning to pick up the parts from the floor. He nimbly leaps up the contours of his suit and places the components carefully in the white mecha’s cockpit. Duo reaches out his hand, anguish etching itself deep into his bloodless face.

“Heero, wait. You don’t mean that.”

Heero spins, suddenly furious. He launches himself from the suit’s chest, landing gracefully inches from Duo’s face. Slamming his hands against Duo’s collarbones, he yanks the other boy close in to his body.

“You don’t know a damn thing about what I mean,” Heero snarls, breath ghosting over Duo’s face like a furnace. “I _don’t_ need you!”

            Duo feels control slipping through his fingers like so many grains of sand. He backs out of Heero’s grasp, fingers fumbling at the zipper to his jumpsuit. “Look me in the eyes and tell me that you don’t want me. One more time. That’s all I’m asking.”

Heero’s eyes harden. He opens his mouth, presumably to tell Duo exactly what he asked. In one smooth motion, Duo unzips the jumpsuit and slips his arms out of the sleeves. The fabric falls to his waist, baring his muscular chest. A breeze slips over his skin and his nipples pebble, and his hands move to his waist. He’s about to slide the jumpsuit off of his hips when the darkness in Heero’s eyes flares into a blaze. The other boy grabs his shoulders, slams him up against the foot of the white Gundam. Duo gasps, back arching away from the chilled metal surface, and Heero’s hands slide scorching hot between the arch of his back and the mecha’s foot. He grinds his erection ruthlessly into Duo’s, and the long-haired boy’s head falls back, mouth rounding on a helpless moan.

Heero shoves the jumpsuit down Duo’s legs, leaving it tangled around his ankles. He grips Duo’s waist tightly and spins the boy around, pressing him into the metal again. Duo closes his eyes, cheek crushed against the suit, and his focus narrows to each drawn-out second. Heero’s hand in the center of his back, pinning him against the most unyielding surface known to mankind. Unable to move, but giving his submission willingly to a person who probably doesn’t give a damn whether he sees the next sunrise.

His eyebrows furrow in something akin to pain, and he knows that the real agony hasn’t even started yet. Heero doesn’t seem to believe in preparation or lubrication… but it is nothing less than he deserves. Every burning moment, every agonizing ache in the days afterward. Heero braces himself against Duo’s back, one hand on his hips, and begins to press in. _This,_ Duo thinks, _this is exactly what I need_. _This is how I fix the mistakes that I have made_. Every searing inch, every flame-licked thrust of Heero’s shaft into his body is a confession, is a sin relieved. Tears streak silently down his face as the blood streams down his thighs, the crimson fluid finally giving some sort of relief to Duo’s tattered body. And, as always, Heero’s hand snakes around to find his cock. The other boy may be mercilessly untutored in painless sex, but he always makes Duo come.

As Duo arches his back, spine curving away from the scorching heat of Heero’s skin, mouth opening in a wordless scream, he wonders if this orgasm is how Heero justifies the blood, justifies walking away without another word after so many of their encounters. Duo’s vision goes white, his body trembling beneath Heero’s, and the other boy’s hands tighten painfully on his hips. Heero climaxes with a low snarl, leaning forward until his breath caresses Duo’s cheek. He reaches up to turn Duo’s face, until stormy seas meet dusky sunset. And then, with the sweetest trace of a finger across Duo’s chin, whispers, “I don’t want you.”

He pulls out of Duo’s body, slicking the fluid off of his cock with one hand, and quickly tucks himself away. Duo lies limply against the Gundam’s foot, eyes closed against the overwhelming agony flooding through him. As he hears the white suit’s engines begin to power up, he stumbles away from it, yanking his jumpsuit up to his hips. He staggers over to Deathscythe, sinking numbly to the ground beneath its massive black legs. Curling into a ball, he tucks his head between his knees, shoves a fist against his teeth to muffle his screams, and sobs.

 

* * *

 

 

Heero hadn’t seen Duo since he had, as Duo had so classlessly put it, “raped Deathscythe.” Personally, he found that a little bit overdramatic. They were just parts. They’re just machines. Dup had acted like Heero had just murdered someone in front of him… which, granted, Heero almost had. Come to think of it, Duo’s reaction to the parts stealing had been considerably more emotional and crazy than Duo’s reaction to him almost killing that girl. Once again, Heero curses under his breath. That girl is still out there, talking to God-knows-who about all of the things she isn’t supposed to know.

Wing chirps, notifying Heero of an incoming message, and he glances down at the monitor in front of him. He recognizes the source code, could dial the number by heart. Duo. The number flashes on the screen, insistent, and Heero slams his hand down on the button to shut off all communications. He can’t afford a distraction at this point, especially not one as addicting as Duo’s body. Heero closes his eyes for a moment, leaning back against the leather of Wing’s seat, and lets himself remember. The slick heat of Duo’s body, clenching deliciously tight around him, the sharp tang of iron on his tongue, the taste of Duo’s lips and the feel of that mouth on him.

Heero shifts, stretching as much as he can manage in the small cockpit. It was all well and good to dream about sex, but managing to fit liaisons in around his complicated mission schedule was becoming damn near impossible. And then there was the fact that the other boy seemed to be getting emotional and irrational about the whole arrangement. Every time they met, he wanted to ask questions – all of the why’s, how’s and what for’s that Heero would die before answering.

_Which is why it will never happen again_. Heero grumbles as Wing beeps, notifying him of a waiting message. He eyes the blinking alert for a moment, hand hesitating over the keys, before pressing the one that would delete Duo’s waiting words. He can’t afford to be tempted.

 

* * *

 

 

Duo sinks down into Scythe’s seat, tugging restlessly at the collar of his jumpsuit. He wonders if Heero even listens to any of the messages that he’s been leaving, and once again resolves never to call the bastard again. He hops out of Scythe’s cockpit, landing quietly on the ground beside his suit. Hearing footsteps behind him, he turns to see Howard, the man who owns the scrap metal company that repairs Deathscythe.

“Your suit is finally repaired, Duo,” Howard comments cheerfully.

“Thanks Howie.” Duo eyes the newest in a long line of obnoxiously colored Hawaiian shirts, and asks himself for the billionth time where Howard finds them.

He turns away to stare up at the sky, leaning against the comforting bulk of his Gundam. Howard looks up as well, seeing the stars spin across the velvet night.

“Beautiful isn’t it?” Howard asks quietly.

“Yeah… it might not be home, but I love seeing the night sky from earth. From the colony, the moon is just too close. It almost looks like a graveyard… I wonder how long I’ll be able to see the moon like this.” He pauses, and then can’t resist saying, “I doubt Heero even looks at the moon. Probably too busy using people for his own sick amusement and destroying everything they love.”

“Are you talking about that guy who was here with you?”

“…nevermind, Howie. I have to go. Duty calls and all that.” Duo flashes him a cheerful smile and clambers back up the sleek metal chest of his Gundam. As he drops into the cockpit, he calls out goodbye and well-wishes to Howard and his crew in the same irritatingly happy voice. No one sees the smile fall from his face the second he is out of sight.

He stares at his comm screen, hoping in vain for a message alert. Nothing. He slams his fist down against the unyielding metal surface and begins the start-up sequence for his suit.

 

* * *

 

Almost a week after Duo leaves the ship, he’s lying limply on a safehouse couch. His braid drapes over his chest before tumbling onto the floor, measuring half its length along dirty, crumb-covered carpet. It’s a signal of his apathy that he doesn’t bother to retrieve his most beloved memorial from the floor. Instead, his hands are folded across his chest, laced tightly together to conceal the vicious shaking that has only grown worse with every passing moment. His eyes are clenched tightly closed, face crumpled with what almost looks like pain.

Only a week, and already in withdrawal. He can feel his scars throbbing with every tortured beat of his heart. He wishes that the noise would stop – the whispers in his head, crying out for something to soothe the emptiness in his chest, the sound of his pulse pounding in his ears. Of course he’s in a lull, at the very moment when he needs a mission the most. He needs the hum of Scythe’s engines, vibrating through his body. He needs the sharp crack of his bones snapping against the walls of the cockpit. He needs the week-long bruises from the harness branded into his chest.

Instead, he has a safe house. A tame, boring safe house, and an order to lay low.

And he is going crazy.

Hearing the voices of the dead, longing to drag a blade through his veins, contemplating throwing himself off a cliff, crazy. He wishes Heero hadn’t left, wishes that the withdrawal didn’t sound suspiciously like Heero’s voice saying ‘I don’t need you.’ He wishes that he could close his eyes at night without seeing those familiar blue eyes sweep across his eyelids, glittering with arousal or dead with apathy. He grunts in frustration and drags himself off the couch, flinging a trenchcoat around his shoulders. Grabbing a set of keys off the shelf by the door, he yanks on the doorknob and disappears into the night.

 

* * *

 

 

Heero stares at Wing’s console, hands gripping convulsively around the controls. Duo’s face flickers across his screen, skin drawn tight over his bones, excessively pale except for the dark circles ringing his violet eyes. His voice sounds tired, exhausted actually, and he never quite glances up at the camera.

“Heero… I keep telling myself that I won’t send you another message. I doubt you even listen to these. I just… I can’t … I need…”

Duo’s eyes on the screen close tightly, and his eyebrows snap down in fury. He shakes his head, decisively, and finally stares straight into the camera, straight through the screen and into Heero.

“Nevermind. Chalk this up to too many sleepless nights, and forget about it. Forget about me. I’m sure you already have.”

The screen goes blank, Duo’s face replaced by a message asking whether he wants to save or delete the video. His hand hesitates over the keys, and the cursor blinks curiously at him, demanding an answer. Save or delete? Forget or remember?

“One more time,” he mutters to himself. “Just to make sure he’s okay. For the mission. One more time.”

 

* * *

 

 

Duo ends up at a bar. Doesn’t remember the name, doesn’t care to know. Dropped his bike at the curb, with enough care to ensure that he has a way home. Not that he really intends to be sober enough to drive… but then again, if it doesn’t matter whether he makes it back alive, he can be as drunk as he damn well pleases. Downing his glass of vodka, he swallows around the burn in his throat and scans the room. If he can’t have Heero, he can still drown himself in someone else’s body. Still exorcise the demons with someone else’s cock.

Someone meets his eyes, an older man leaning against one of the pool tables in the back. Duo eyes him carefully, sizing him up. Tall, taller than him, not that this is a particularly difficult feat, as Duo stands barely over five feet. Nondescript, lightly muscled, a hint of weight gathered around his midsection. He has the look of a former soldier, a certain darkness hovering around his gaze.

In that darkness, Duo hopes there will be a certain amount of violence. Enough to put Duo’s demons to rest, at least for a little while. At least until G sends him new orders and he is able to take out the violence on his own body. The man catches the interest in his eyes and strides across the room, sliding onto a stool next to Duo. He signals the bartender for another round, indicating that he’ll pay for both drinks. Duo rolls the glass between his hands before slugging half of the alcohol back, a small smile curling his lips at the warmth gathering in his belly.

The other man opens his mouth and Duo places a slender finger over his lips, letting a flirtatious grin cover his face.

“It’s better if we don’t do names, sugar. Let’s just say that I’m interested, and I’m game if you are.”

The stranger raises an eyebrow, a smirk curling his own lips as his tongue flicks out to taste Duo’s finger. “If that’s the way you want to play, fine. Let’s skip the formalities and leave now.”

Duo tosses back the rest of the liquor and stands to leave, sliding a tip across the bar to the bartender. His coat swirls around him as he pulls open the door, hair blowing away from his face as a breeze sweeps into the room. The man is right behind him, hand pressed against the small of his back, fingers splayed over his spine. They slide onto Duo’s motorcycle, the other man pressed tight up against his back. Duo can feel the hardness nudging his tailbone, and a feral grin crosses his features as he kicks the bike into gear. _See Heero? I don’t even need you._ The warm assurance of the alcohol almost slides away at the thought of Heero, and he revs the engine higher to drive away the sight of disapproving cobalt eyes.

They tumble through the door of Duo’s battered safe house, lips already locked together. A chorus of low groans charts their progress up the stairs, clothing dropped haphazardly on the floor beneath them. By the time Duo is fumbling behind him for the bedroom’s doorknob, he’s down to his tight black jeans and the other man is clad only in a half-buttoned shirt.

“God, you’re beautiful,” the man breathes, and Duo freezes at the tenderness in his voice.

He pops a few buttons trying to get the man out of his shirt, hands shaking as the need rises. Pulling them both onto the bed, he slithers out of his jeans in the instant before the man’s heavy bulk pins him to the bed. Duo squirms against the heat of his partner’s skin, feeling his own body become slick with sweat. He slips his hand down, wrapping fingers around the stranger’s erection, hearing the unfamiliar hiss in his ear.

“Easy, sweetheart,” the low voice rumbles in his ear. “We have all night. What’s your rush?”

Duo seethes silently, gentling his hand movements, gliding his fingers along the silky skin. He writhes beneath the other man, grinding his length against a blessedly muscular thigh. Making his voice soft and needy, Duo whimpers against the column of his throat. “Need you... want you inside me. Can’t wait.”

The stranger chuckles, sliding a hand between their bodies to wrap callused fingers around Duo’s erection. He teases his fingernails down Duo’s length, slipping his hand lower to cradle Duo’s balls. Duo tenses, almost pulling away from the other man. His head is spinning, spiraling rapidly out of control, and he wishes Heero were here. This was a bad decision. He needs ruthlessness, needs the tang of crimson in the air, needs the familiar, utter lack of foreplay. The fingers creep lower, rimming the puckered hole that Duo is so desperate to have filled. Duo thinks he hears a sound downstairs, but all of his attention is focused on what the stranger in his bed is not doing. _This is so wrong. This should be Heero. This should not be happening. What the fuck is he doing?_

Duo grunts. “Stop teasing… please.”

“I’m not teasing, tiger. I’m prepping you… I’m a big boy.” The other man pulls away enough to wink at him, casting a meaningful glance at Duo’s hand wrapped around his shaft. Duo tightens his fingers, goading the other man, trying to tempt him into forgetting the preparation.

“I can handle it,” Duo moans, shifting restlessly as the man eases one finger into him. “I’m not a delicate flower. Stop playing and just do it already.”

Duo feels the hand pull away from him and sighs in relief, thinking that his words have finally gotten through. Instead, his eyes fly open at his partner’s muffled scream, and he sees the man being dragged rapidly off of the bed. A shadow rises above both of them, clad head to toe in black, and the hint of light that seeps in through the curtains isn’t enough for Duo to identify their attacker. Duo rolls off of the bed, landing in a crouch, wincing as he hears his bedmate hitting the opposite wall with a snap of bones. There is a dragging noise, and he peeks his head above the bed to see the intruder shoving the man out the door. The door slams shut, locking with a decisive click, and Duo glances at the window.

His unwelcome visitor is suddenly in front of him, alarmingly fast, and Duo flinches away as he is shoved back against the wall. The attacker leans in, pressing up against Duo’s body until Duo can feel breath hot against his face. Duo puts his hands against the person’s chest, struggling to shove the weight away, but finds his wrists pinned above his head before he can get any sort of leverage.

“ _What the_ fuck _are you doing?_ ” A familiar voice snarls, lit with fury.

Duo relaxes in his grip, but turns his face away. “What do you want, Heero?”

“Answer my question.”

Duo sighs softly, fidgeting half-heartedly in Heero’s grasp. “I’m moving on, Heero. You made it perfectly clear that you didn’t want anything to do with me. You ignored my messages. You never answered. I don’t know why you’re here now. But if you don’t mind, I’m exhausted. I’m going to help my friend out there back to his place… or a hospital, if you’ve damaged him that much, and then I’m going to go to bed. Hopefully at some point in the near future, I’ll be able to get out of this shithole and do something with my life.”

He pulls his wrists free, tries to duck under Heero’s arm. Heero blocks him, pressing his forehead against Duo’s in a strangely intimate gesture.

“If you need someone to fuck you, I’ll be that person. If you need something, I’ll be the one to give it to you. Don’t ever try to give yourself to someone else again. _You’re mine_.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand. If anyone else touches you in anything other than friendship, I’ll break their fucking hand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spy, with my little eye, JEALOUSY. Gasp/Shock/Horror! Is Heero catching feelings?


	7. Thanks for the Memories (even though they weren't so great)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heero is struggling for some semblance of control, shattering under the strain of so many impossible expectations. Duo is breaking beneath the weight of all of the sins he bears, unable to cope with all of the blood guilt on his soul. They both are desperate to find an outlet for their living nightmares. Redemption is a whipping post, a hair shirt, a long line of flagellants waiting to be punished. Redemption can only be achieved through pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING. This is a rough one, people. Self-harm, violence. PLEASE be careful, and don't read this if you're not feeling stable enough.

_“I don’t understand.”_

_“There’s nothing to understand. If anyone else touches you in anything other than friendship, I’ll break their fucking hand.”_

Duo just stares at him, heart-shaped lips parted in shock. A little moue of confusion creases his face, amethyst eyes asking all of the questions that he knows Heero will never answer. They’re only inches apart, Heero’s forehead still pressed up against him, the other boy’s skin a cool balm against his fevered face. Despite this, Duo senses a distance gaping between them, a chasm filled with their history, their avoided conversations, his aborted attempts at emotional connection.

He pulls away from Heero, the heat leaving his skin with a tearing sensation in his chest. For an instant, Duo tricks himself into thinking that he sees a hint of regret and disappointment flicker in the ocean depths of Heero’s eyes. He turns to face the wall, drawing a hissing breath into lungs that struggle with Heero’s proximity, and draws a hand through his messy bangs. He needs to take a moment to drag his tattered edges together, a moment to recover from the whiplash of Heero’s hot and cold mindgames.

Heero takes a step forward, hesitant, hand reaching out toward Duo’s clenched fists. Duo flinches away from the burning brand of his touch, slipping out of range, drawing the emotional turmoil around him like a soldier’s heavy shield.

“Please don’t.”

The long-haired boy shifts toward the door, steps laden with the tension of the room, noticeably louder than his usual padding motions. Peering around the doorframe, he finds his almost-lover in a crumpled pile on the floor. Duo sighs, shaking his head. _If Heero did this shit for the right reasons, it would be so goddamn sexy. Instead it’s a ‘I don’t want you, but no one else can have you’ thing._ He crouches down next to the injured man, fingers slipping around his wrist to fumble at his pulse point. Blood pumps between his fingers, slow and a little faint, but steady, and Duo huffs out a noise of relief. The man stirs, perhaps in response to the touch of Duo’s hand, eyelids flickering. A pained grunt escapes his lips as he tries to shift, and Duo places a hand on his shoulder to keep him still.

“You probably shouldn’t move… I’m sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean to get you in the middle of this situation.”

“What the fuck happened?” the other man grumbles, voice distant and strained with discomfort.

“Well… that guy in there is… well, we’ve been fucking. And I kind of thought he was done with me, because he told me he was. But apparently he wasn’t? I have no idea. I really don’t. But I’m sorry that it got you hurt,” Duo mutters, throat closing around the pitiful excuses that he’s forced to spit out. At that moment, a rush of annoyance floods him that Heero put him in that situation. What right did Heero have to bust into this place… how did Heero even find him?

Duo strokes the man’s hair back from his face, wincing at the massive bruising rising along one cheek. The man seems to have lapsed back into unconsciousness, and Duo sighs heavily as he tucks his arms beneath shoulder and knees. He lifts the injured body with a groan of exertion, cursing the heaviness of a limp tangle of limbs.

He’s not proud of what he has to do, but he leaves this near stranger at the threshold of the hospital, shaking him a little bit to wake him up. The man is about to call out when Duo places a finger over his own lips, negating whatever words he was about to say with a twitch of his head. Duo tugs the dark cap down further, shadowing his face, and offers a quirky wave as he turns to leave. He hears the alarmed shouts of the hospital staff as they discover the bruise ridden and broken-boned figure on their doorstep, and hurries into the shadows of a nearby building.

 

* * *

 

 

Duo shuffles back into the safe house, shutting the door behind him with more force than is strictly necessary. He slumps down, back against the comfortingly solid surface, and drops his head to his knees. His thoughts are spinning, a tornado of confusion whirling around his brain, picking up stray anxieties and phobias and small quirky thought cows and tossing them against his skull. A strangled noise of frustration sneaks out of his chest and he clenches his teeth together, hearing the dull grind of his jaws clamping down. A shuffling echo catches his ears and he lifts his head, eyes meeting the scuffed surface of Heero’s tattered combat boots. He lets his eyes creep upward, sliding along the length of his muscular legs, over the hem of his brilliantly tight spandex shorts, hovering for an admirably short moment on the compressed but noticeable bulge at the waist, past the tattered green tank top that drapes deliciously over his chest, and finally up to his face. Heero has one eyebrow raised, a smirk of amusement dancing around his lips at Duo’s slow survey. The smirk fades somewhat as he sees the utter desolation in Duo’s strangely violet eyes. He extends a hand, offering to help Duo to his feet, but the long-haired boy merely gazes dispassionately at the upturned palm.

Finally, after a moment of unwavering apathy from Duo, Heero lets his hand fall back to his waist. “I… can’t do this anymore.” Duo sounds surprised, as if he weren’t expecting those words to emerge from his lips.

Heero stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“I mean exactly what I said. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this back and forth, from the glaciers of Antarctica to the fires of Mordor thing.” Duo shakes his head at Heero’s puzzled glance, the Asian boy not recognizing the ancient movie reference. “I know I’m starting to sound like you, but I can’t afford the distraction. I’m not too proud to admit that you make me weak, and that’s something that will get me killed if I let it continue.”

“So don’t let it distract you. And I’m not hot and cold. You’re imagining things,” Heero comments, unconcerned.

“It’s not that easy, and you’re a liar. A bad liar, at that. One minute, you’re telling me that you don’t want me, that you don’t care – ” “I never said I didn’t care.” “ – that you never want to see me again. The next minute you’re apparently stalking me, busting into my apartment like the police and beating the shit out of someone whose only mistake was coming home with me.”

“Duo. This isn’t that complicated. I show up. We have sex. I leave. It doesn’t need to be any more complicated than that. But if I show up and you’re attempting to fuck someone else, it is a problem. I solved the problem.” Duo doesn’t say anything for a moment, but his eyes are strangely bright, glittering like a fever patient’s. His chest seems to heave a few times, as if he is repressing the truth, and then it bursts out in a rush.

“No! It doesn’t work like that, Heero. Not in the real world. People have feelings. They’re like a weird disease, and apparently you’re immune, but I’m not. I care. I know I shouldn’t, I know you don’t, but I do. And it doesn’t matter that you don’t care, it doesn’t change the fact that I do. But it does change this … arrangement, as I’m sure you’ve been calling it. One-sided relationships don’t work. Fuckbuddies when one person is more emotionally attached turns into the biggest example of emotional masochism the world has ever seen. I will not jeopardize this war so you can continue to get laid, Heero. I won’t.”

Heero folds his arms across his chest, sapphire eyes shuttering. Duo can actually see it – the withdrawal from the conversation, the unconvinced set of his jaw, the refusal to accept any opinion except his own.

“Change it then,” Heero demands stubbornly.

Duo stares at him, silent. He tilts his head a little bit, curious, inquiring.

“Change it. You said that you want things to be different… you say that…” he casts around for an example, searching the laundry list of complaints that Duo has presented him with. “You say that I never answer your questions. What do you want to know?”

Duo knows that Heero is offering him a blank check, a get out of jail free card, but he can’t bring himself to believe it. Heero doesn’t have the capacity to open up. Deathscythe has more emotional depth and empathy than the Asian man standing in front of him. So, instead of asking an easy question, Duo goes straight for the throat.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were a Gundam pilot?”

Heero jerks back a little bit, not expecting that, and his eyes narrow in anger. “I can’t talk to you about the mission, Duo. You should know that. Just because we’re both Gundam pilots doesn’t mean you’re not the enemy.”

Duo snorts, repressing a harsh bark of laughter. “If I was the enemy, wouldn’t I have killed you by now?”

“… it’s entirely possible that you were waiting for a moment such as this one to interrogate me, once I had my guard down,” Heero rationalizes carefully, expression turning thoughtful.

“Always the soldier…” Duo leans his head back against the wall, feeling exhausted. Discussions with Heero are as futile as the shore resisting the sea. The sea continues, steady and implacable, and the shore is slowly eroded away, slowly eaten away by the irresistible pull of the waves.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Heero inquires suddenly, as if the thought has just occurred to him.

Duo doesn’t lift his head from the wall, instead letting his eyes drift closed as he answers. “To protect the mission. To protect you.” Heero snorts incredulously. “To protect you,” Duo repeats, “from crazy, short-haired Asian pilots who seem inclined to shoot people who learn about the Gundams.”

Heero sounds perplexed. “It would be impractical to shoot myself.”

“How do you know we’re the only two pilots? I’ve heard rumors of other pilots. But that’s not the point. I couldn’t tell you. Everyone I ever get close to, everyone I’ve ever been… with… ends up dead. I hurt people. I was trying to protect you, from me.”

Heero turns away from him abruptly, slamming his fist into the wall. Duo cries out, lifting his head away from the door, violet eyes wide with shock. His hand flies out, though Heero isn’t within arm’s reach, as if his fingers could wrap protectively around Heero’s bruised and battered knuckles. Heero pivots back toward him, eyes black, pupils blown out with his abject fury.

“ _That is not your decision_ ,” he snarls, his voice shaking with rage. “You have no right to take away my choice. You can’t control me. I refuse to give up control to anyone, least of all to _you._ ”

Duo rocks back, stung by Heero’s harsh words. “Least of all by me? What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know that you’ve spent your whole life being controlled by guilt. I know that you’re running from the fact that the mobile suit you stole got the Maxwell Church Orphanage and all of the people inside of it demolished,” Heero doesn’t flinch at Duo’s agonized cry, choked off by his hands flying to his mouth. He doesn’t stop the steady stream of words, even when tears flood over Duo’s cheekbones to soak his fingers. “I know that you were out looking for someone at the bar that night because you needed something to distract you from the guilt. I know that you use the pain as a means to control yourself. I’ve seen the scars, despite your best efforts. I know you, Duo, more than you think.”

“You don’t have any goddamn right to know any of that!” Duo shrieks at him, lashing the tears off of his face.

“Maybe not. But I do. And someone who can’t control his own guilt, to the point where he drowns himself in pain and misery, has no right to make choices for anyone else,” Heero continues calmly, his face devoid of emotion.

Duo is no longer listening, eyes wide and blank in an alarmingly pale face. His hands have dropped down into his lap and are beginning to shake, draped limply across his knees and shivering their way off of his legs. Tears trickle over his cheeks, dripping off his sharply angled jaw to stain his shirt. A low keening noise is leaking out from between his lips, and he seems almost unaware that he is its source. Heero frowns a little, half in concern and half in annoyance at the siren sound that grows in volume with every passing second. Duo’s body begins to rock back and forth, tucking itself into a tighter and tighter ball, trembling from bangs to boots.

“…Duo?” Heero asks hesitantly, unsure of what is happening with the other boy.

There is no answer, only that same high-pitched whine that is rising alarmingly close to a scream. Heero glances around, wondering how close the neighbors are and if they can hear the commotion through the walls. He reaches out toward Duo’s shoulder, alarm rising in his chest at the long-haired boy’s unusual behavior. Or is this normal for him? It bothers Heero that he doesn’t know. Yes, he intended for their relationship to go no further than war companions who were physically intimate… but Duo is right. He knows too much about Duo, while he maintains the impossibly high walls protecting his own secrets, and he uses his knowledge to harm the other boy.

As his fingers brush Duo’s skin, the boy lets out a startled shout and scuttles away from the touch. He’s beginning to hyperventilate, chest heaving with agonized breaths, harshly dragged in through impossibly pale lips. Duo’s eyes come slowly into focus, staring down at the blankness of his wrists. Heero can see the pulse pounding frantically in his neck, fluttering like a terrified bird against the cage of his throat. He feels distinctly helpless, since the American won’t accept the comfort of his touch… and helplessness is a remarkably uncomfortable sensation for Heero.

Suddenly Duo is in motion, face twisted into a sick sort of determination, one hand sliding into his boot to drag out a knife. The blade gleams under the harsh lights, glittering lethally in Duo’s white-knuckled grip. Duo lets out a soft breath, a satisfied sigh, almost a noise of muted pleasure. Heero recognizes it, the quiet exhale of surrender that usually escapes Duo’s lips as he relaxes into Heero’s hands. Heero has only an instant to wonder why the knife elicits such an erotic noise before Duo has the blade pressed to the scarred surface of his wrist, tugging against the tattered skin. He chokes out a protest, warning bells clanging in his skull as he lunges toward Duo. Duo’s head shoots up, fixing Heero with a feral glare, and he snarls. His teeth are bared, lips pulled away from their gleaming white surfaces, and a primal growl rumbles out of his chest.

He snaps at Heero’s grasping hand, actually reaching out and attempting to latch his teeth around the extended limb. Heero yanks his arm away from the snapping jaws, tempted to backhand some sense into the uncivilized creature wearing Duo’s face. Seeing Heero withdraw, Duo’s eyes immediately drop back to the knife’s blade in his fingers, pressing down against the layers of skin protecting his pulse point. The skin begins to part, separating reluctantly under the pressure of the razored edge. A pleased grin splits Duo’s face and he tugs at the knife, a long slit opening in his forearm. Lifting the blade away from his flesh, he watches the empty channel. For a moment, the sickening yellow of fat is visible in the wound before blood wells to the surface, crimson seeping over the torn edges and beginning to trickle over in mocking ruby ribbons.

Duo murmurs wordlessly at the sight, and Heero swallows down bile at the unadulterated pleasure in the other boy’s face. Heero steps forward once more, cautiously this time, and bends down until he is eye level with the blank amethyst gaze. He reaches out, wrapping his hand around Duo’s wrist, and pulls the knife away from his arm. Duo stiffens, every muscle in his body pulling away from Heero’s protective grip. He yanks his hand away, trying to get the silvered edge back to the pleading skin of his arm. Blood droplets flicker in the air, thrown from his veins by the force of their struggle. Heero pins his wrist against the door, tightening his fingers, trying to force Duo to drop the knife. Duo clings to it, stubborn, fingers clamping down on the handle like the unerring jaws of a wild beast.

Sinking his teeth into Heero’s bicep, Duo shakes his head slightly, tearing at the Asian boy’s yielding muscle. Skin tears slightly with the movement, and the bright smell of copper fills the air. Duo tastes pennies on his tongue and tightens his jaws, the sickening warmth of blood flooding his mouth. A pained grunt escapes Heero and his hand twitches imperceptibly, the only reactions to the attack. Lifting his head, Duo licks lips that gleam with Heero’s blood. He flexes his wrist, testing Heero’s hold.

“Let go, Heero,” he sing-songs, voice hauntingly childish.

“No… Duo, stop. Please.”

“I can’t. Don’t you see, Heero? I need this. It’s the only way that I can fix my mistakes. Father Maxwell, Sister Helen, the orphans, my Solo…” The calm façade drops from his face for a moment, revealing the devastation at the memories flooding him. “Let go, Heero. You can’t fight addiction.”

Heero shakes his head in refusal, and Duo’s face twists in an animalistic snarl. The humanity falls away from him, as if he is shedding a cloak, and suddenly Heero finds himself being thrown onto his back. Duo’s knee slams into his ribcage, and a crack snaps off of the silent walls. Breath hisses between Heero’s teeth as it is wrenched from his lungs, and his head slams against the floor with the force of his fall. His hand never releases Duo’s wrist, though the knife grazes his own arm, leaving a gleaming red welt on the golden skin.

“Let go, Heero. _Now_.”

“No.”

Duo’s free hand lashes out, slamming into Heero’s face. Heero’s hand tightens in reflex, and he hears a crunch beneath his fingers. Duo’s face whitens with pain, but he yanks at the Asian boy’s clutching fingers, ignoring the displaced bones in his own arm.

“Stop! Duo, I’m hurting you!”

“Isn’t that the whole point, Heero?” Duo whispers, the eerie lilt back in his words.

“…forgive me, Duo,” Heero mutters, and he twists the other boy against him, laying the struggling American down on his own chest. His free arm rises to encircle Duo’s throat, tightening against the pulse points that flutter frantically against his unyielding muscles. Duo thrashes in his grip, kicking out, elbow pounding against Heero’s bruised and cracked ribs. The movements slow, becoming weaker as his oxygen deprived brain begins to shut down. When he finally goes still, lying limply in Heero’s embrace, Heero releases him. He removes the knife from Duo’s hand, fingers falling open as he pries at the blade.

Heero lifts the long-haired boy from the floor, rising to his feet with a grunt as his ribs protest the movement. He carries his burden to a couch and gently releases the boy onto the cushions, sinking down to the floor. Letting his gaze run over the unconscious body, he takes note of Duo’s injuries and drags himself across the room to the first aid kit. Heero flops bonelessly beside Duo’s body once more, flipping open the lid of the supply box. Seeing Duo’s braid trailing over the arm of the couch and onto the carpet, Heero picks up the tail and lays it beside one out thrown hand. It’s the wrist that Heero was holding, and Heero swallows a lump in his throat as he sees finger-shaped bruises rising on the deformed arm. He knows that if he laid his hand over the skin, his fingers would fall perfectly along the deep purple welts.

Reaching out, he gently traces one mark and then prods at the misplaced bones, trying to determine whether he’ll have to set it. “At least you won’t have to feel this, Duo,” he murmurs, as he begins to stretch Duo’s hand away from his forearm. The bones slip back into place with a nauseating crunch, and he swallows bile as he retrieves a length of bandage from the first aid kit. Once Duo’s wrist is securely wrapped, Heero pulls his other arm across his chest to examine the long gash.

He cleans and wraps this arm as well, tucking in the edges of the bandage with a charming gentleness. Flicking a glance to Duo’s unshifting eyelids, he bends to place a kiss at the peak of Duo’s damaged wrist. “I’m so sorry, Duo,” he murmurs, the fabric rough against his lips.

He sinks to the ground, packing away the medical supplies, and places his back against the couch. Sitting sentry over the lifeless boy, he watches the shadows creep across the room, watches the shadows descend over the empty apartment. Heero’s eyes stare into nothing, mind creeping over the terrifying memories of that day, trying to process. He’s terrified, and not just because he watched his lover attempt to slit his wrists… it’s not even the fact that he’s begun to think of Duo as a lover, rather than as a convenient set of holes. He’s afraid, more than anything else, of the thrill of horror that ran through him at the thought of losing Duo forever. Of the terrible shame humming through him, knowing that he snapped Duo’s wrist trying to protect him. Of the fact that he tried to protect him at all, rather than turning away from this show of weakness and surrender.

Heero squeezes his eyes shut, eyelashes damp with unshed tears, and levers himself to his feet. He turns, eyes opening to reveal eyes gone dark with grief, gazing down at Duo’s still form. The sunset’s golden light creeps across the floorboards, gilding the braid trailing across Duo’s chest, kissing the edges of his bandaged arms. He brushes the back of his hand over Duo’s cheek, feeling a strange throb in his chest as he moves toward the door. Pausing with his hand on the doorknob, he casts one last longing stare at the boy. “I really am sorry.”


	8. Darling, I Want to Destroy You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heero is struggling for some semblance of control, shattering under the strain of so many impossible expectations. Duo is breaking beneath the weight of all of the sins he bears, unable to cope with all of the blood guilt on his soul. They both are desperate to find an outlet for their living nightmares. Redemption is a whipping post, a hair shirt, a long line of flagellants waiting to be punished. Redemption can only be achieved through pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a transition chapter. I could have written the next scene, but it's going to be impossibly long and I wanted to get this chapter out.

Heero wipes his hands clean, a derisive frown curling his lips. These soldiers were ignorant. Completely unaware of their surroundings. He pauses for a moment, faltering in his steps as he half-turns back toward the limp bodies. What if he’d killed them… he shakes his head, messy hair flying about his face. Before Duo, the thought never would have crossed his mind. J would be disgusted. He spares a moment to hope that J is still ignorant of his illicit liaison with the long-haired boy… and then snorts as he realizes that he is hoping that for both their sakes. J would surely drag him in for ‘retraining’… Heero shudders at the consideration of Duo under J’s steel claw, shoving down a wave of fury at the concept.

The massive hangar is almost empty, echoing caverns humming with movement. The bomb he’d set off has sent the troops fluttering from their barracks like baby birds out of the next. Clueless, and just as helpless. Heero moves with purpose, steps quick and silent, slipping from shadow to shadow as he darts deeper into the building.

He slips into the cockpit of a transport, settling himself into the pilot’s chair with a contented grunt. Men were made for the skies, made to lift these metal birds on impossible wings. Effortlessly flicking switches, he readies the ship for take-off, already calculating the time it will take him to load Wing onboard. A red light pops up on the console and he freezes, noting excess weight in one of the freight compartments. Flinging himself from the seat, he dashes toward the interior of the ship. _I really don’t have time for this!_ He skids to a halt in the doorway, seeing a familiar mobile suit lying down to rest on the floor of his commandeered ships.

“Out of all the transports he could have chosen…” Heero snarls under his breath.

He drags his gun from the waistband of his spandex shorts, pointing it at the opening door of the Gundam. His hand is shaking, muzzle of the gun wavering slightly. He should shoot him. Really, he should. Duo drops to the ground, braid drifting behind him like a feather falling from a wing. He glances up, stares down the barrel of Heero’s gun, and raises a speculative eyebrow.

“Not that this isn’t familiar or anything, but we don’t have time. Load yours on too, pal, I’ll come and take over the cockpit.”

Heero’s hand drops, slowly, almost without his agreement. Duo is already in motion, running toward him without fear, and Heero can’t understand why. _I’ve broken his wrist, threatened to shoot him, told him more times than I can count that I don’t care. How can he still trust me?_ He stiffens, lifts the gun once more, murmuring Duo’s name. Duo stops, all of his manic energy pulling to a halt, and throws up his hands in frustration. His violet eyes are lit with anger and what Heero thinks may be fear, though he can’t imagine the God of Death being afraid of anything.

Duo rolls his eyes as Heero’s hand tightens convulsively on the trigger of the gun. “I promise I won’t let the mission fail, Heero. How about trusting me a bit? I know that’s kind of a foreign concept for you, but you gotta just go with it this time.”

Heero turns away, abruptly, shoving the gun back into the small of his back. He winces as the icy surface presses against his spine, and pushes himself into motion.

“Do what you want,” he calls over his shoulder, and heads in the direction of Wing. A small voice in his head mocks him, reminding him that this looks a great deal like running. And running is supposed to be Duo’s response. As he settles behind the familiar console of Wing’s cockpit, he takes a moment to pull himself together. He breathes in the comforting hot steel and leather scent of his suit, clenching his hands around the controls until the blisters on his fingers split and bleed. He grits his teeth. _I will not give in again. I can’t. No matter how much I want to. Duo is right. This is a distraction. I’ll get us both killed. We can’t afford to fail._

* * *

  


Bullets ricochet off the windshield of the transport as Duo maneuvers it out of the hangar, heading straight toward the unrelenting line of soldiers. His lips tug down in regret as he plows towards them, praying that they’ll move rather than get mown down. Their guns don’t stand a chance against the reinforced sides of the plane. Heero sits beside him, arms crossed across his chest, a silent sentinel. He can practically see the disapproval wafting off of the mute Asian boy. Concentrating on getting them off the ground, Duo doesn’t mind the silence. But after a few moments in the air, the tension-laden air is too much to leave empty.

“… this is going to be quite the battle!” He chirps with fake cheerfulness, hoping to prod Heero into some sort of strategic discussion.

He should have known better. Heero’s shoulders tense, drawing in toward his chest in a strangely defensive posture. After an excruciating stretch of silence, he turns condescending sapphire eyes onto the long-haired boy. “This mission is really big, Duo. I don’t think you get it.”

Duo’s fingers tighten around the plane’s stick. He draws in a slow, steady breath, trying to soften the red haze tinting his vision. “Oh, but I do.” His voice is silky, the sweet, deadly tone that people only hear in their final moments. “This is our chance to finally destroy Oz. I know exactly what it means.”

“This time is different,” Heero intones, voice flat. “We’re going to eliminate every Oz leader.”

Duo closes his eyes for a moment, letting the crimson fog drift across his sight for a blessed instant. He allows himself, just for a second, to dream of slamming his fist into Heero’s unyielding jaw, the self-satisfied smirk slipping from the other boy’s face. “We are,” Duo says, confidently, eyes sliding back open to focus on the stars ahead of them. “Then I go back to space.”

He can’t keep the longing out of his voice, the bittersweet homesickness that swamps him when he remembers all that he left behind. It’s not much, granted, and much of it is torn and ravaged with sickness and hatred. But it is family. It is his childhood. It is all that he has, and though it isn’t much, it will always be his. A faint, nostalgic smile curls his lips, the darkness in his eyes gentling.

He looks so content, far happier than Heero has ever seen him… and he misses the shock of pain that spikes across Heero’s face, the hitch in his breathing as his pulse stutters. The future had never occurred to Heero… a future where the war was over, all of the pilots survived… and then, naturally, they would return home. A home where Heero had nothing, not his Gundam, not the precious satisfaction of victory, and certainly not the soothing comfort of the boy seated behind him. It never occurred to him that as soon as he won the war, he would lose Duo.

 

* * *

 

 

Their suits slam into the ground, and Duo suppresses a gasp as Wing flips nose over tail, still in flight mode. He jabs his hands furiously against the controls, sending Deathscythe spinning toward the suit that shot Heero down. His thermal scythe flickers in the air, sharp and alien against the stunningly clear sky. The hull of the enemy suit parts like paper, body sheared in half by his Gundam’s blow. Duo breathes a sigh of relief as Wing rises from the ground, and he flicks open the comm. lines between them.

“Whoa. This enemy line isn’t like the others,” he mutters across the link, worry furrowing his brow.

Usually they managed to catch Oz and Alliance troops by surprise, slipping in and out with expertly managed guerilla tactics. This time, sweeping across all six of Deathscythe’s monitors, suits expand over the horizon like an army of olive ants. They were prepared, waiting for a Gundam attack before their suits were even properly deployed. Duo grunts as his mecha is pelleted with gunfire, the suit rocking slightly under the onslaught. He raises Scythe’s arm, sending his pincered shield spinning into the nearest enemy.

“There’s ten times more of them,” Heero comments, concern in his low voice. “That’s much more than we estimated.”

Duo’s glance flits up, measuring Heero’s face on his screen. The Asian boy’s expression is blank, impassive, determination hardening his angular face. Duo nods, almost to himself, and tightens his grip on the controls. He rolls his shoulders back, in preparation for the fight ahead of them.  
            “Well there’s no turning back now,” he says grimly.

They twist into motion, moving as two halves of an inseparable pair, and a feral grin curls Duo’s lips. Their relationship might be crumbling beneath the strain of war, but they make war exactly as they fuck – effortlessly, reaping pain as they sow. He slams against his harness as Scythe bursts forward, thermal sickle parting waves of enemy troops. Heero’s beam cannon sears through the right side of his monitor, demolishing the troops in its path. It’s a sharp sort of beauty, the destruction they wreak in perfect tandem. Sweat trickles down his brow, dampening his bangs, and he impatiently tosses his head, flinging hair and perspiration away from his vision.

It’s not enough. New troops materialize as the others are torn down, and soon enough Heero throws down the spent cannon to draw his blade. Duo frees one hand to switch rapidly through his screens, monitoring damage on the exterior of his suit. Deathscythe is holding up well, refusing to give in under the constant thunder of weaponry against it, but it isn’t impermeable.

“We’re taking too long to break through,” Heero’s voice floats across the cockpit, mirroring his thoughts.

“Let’s move in for the kill,” Duo snarls, and he crashes into the thrusters with adrenaline flooding his system.

The force throws him back against his seat, contours molded to his body, and he grits his teeth as his suit meets the Leo lined up against him. His chest jerks forward, meeting the unyielding straps of the harness, and he feels bruises rising along his torso as he twists the scythe through the offending suit. He takes a breath as the skies in front of him clear, glancing over to check on Heero. Wing has likewise littered the ground with debris, no intact suits rising to challenge him. Duo is opening his mouth to request status on his partner when Deathscythe’s proximity alarms scream.

A bright orange suit, similar to Scythe and Wing, has appeared on the battlefield beside them, but its array of missiles is pelting straight toward Duo. He wrenches Deathscythe to the side, pulling his Gundam off-balance to avoid the impact, and registers a vague hint of thankfulness as he sees the projectiles miss Heero as well. Leos flood the ground, surrounding Deathscythe, who is down on one knee, and Wing, who has tumbled face-down from the explosion. Heero is levering Wing to its feet as two new suits join the field, one being the orange and white monstrosity that opened fire on them.

Duo attempts to open a link to the other suit, a double-sickled black Gundam, but the other pilot ruthlessly shuts him down. “No time to chit-chat,” a cold voice echoes over the comm. before the connection is severed, “I’ve got work to do.”

Duo snarls, jabbing his fingers against the keyboard in a command to analyze the new suits, and maneuvers Scythe to a standing position. He throws a fleeting glance to be sure that Heero is prepared and then focuses on the new enemy, shifting Scythe into a ready position. Wing is beside him, their suits standing shoulder-to-shoulder, and Duo has a moment to be grateful that he has Heero backing him up. The new suits decimate the Leos before resuming their wary position opposite Scythe and Wing. A moment passes, twin pairs of suits staring at each other over the corpses of so many battered Alliance soldiers. Shorn steel twists on the ground between them as the tension mounts, neither pair willing to go up against a nearly identical suit. They know what they are capable of, and can only assume that the other half has similar proficiencies.  

A second proximity alarm lights up Duo’s console and he swears beneath his breath, pushing a button to bring up the information. It’s an Oz shuttle, launching from the meeting of Oz officials that they were fighting to get into. Heero shifts into motion beside him, Wing morphing into flight mode and taking off toward the escaping shuttle. The three Gundams stand on the tarmac, watching Wing pursue the Oz ship, and Duo for one is praying quietly that his partner reaches it. With the Oz officials out of the question, the war will be over. It will all end. And he can finally be at peace.

_You hate peacetime_. A sinister voice whispers in his head. And then, a thoughtful voice, one that he doesn’t often hear, murmurs, _And what will happen to Heero, then? This arrangement was a convenience of war._

Duo winces, acknowledging the logic of that thought, and then sweeps it off his mind as Heero’s beam saber slices effortlessly through the Oz plane. The ship explodes, shrapnel raining down over the Gundams on the ground, and Heero’s pleased voice slips over the link.

“Mission accomplished.”

Hoping to gain the upper hand in the stand-off, Duo opens a channel to the other suits. “Thanks for the missiles earlier, buddy… now time to return the favor!” He launches Scythe at the orange Gundam, sickle sweeping over his head to slice through the opponent’s ocular lens. To his surprise, the other suit springs a blade out of its forearm and meets him halfway, slamming his mecha to an abrupt half. They press together for a moment, each testing the limits of the other suit, and then spring apart briefly. The enemy opens its chest and releases a machine gun hail of bullets, and Duo throws up the shield on his Gundam’s arm to deflect the gunfire. Deathscythe leans back slightly, bracing against the ground for an instant before it is in motion once more, thermal blade flickering toward the enemy’s cockpit. Duo clenches his jaw as the two suits meet, leaning into his harness with teeth bared.

A burst of flames explodes in front of his screens and Duo flings up an arm in front of his eyes, temporarily blinded. Deathscythe staggers back from the stand-off, and turns toward the new invasion as Duo’s vision slowly clears. He registers Wing landing behind him and darts out one hand to send a thankful ping at Heero’s suit. He catches Heero’s nod of acknowledgement, the hand signal twitched at the vid screen that says “I’m here. I’ve got your back.” All four suits turn as one, aligned for an instant against the newest enemy. It’s a fifth suit, just like theirs, with a fire-breathing dragon head snaking out from one shoulder.

Duo peeks over at Heero, watching the other boy analyze the new threat, and pops open their audio link. “I’ve got to admit, I’m a bit jealous of that firepower…”

“…of those meaningless battles yet?”

Duo misses the first half of the announcement in his whispered declaration to Heero, and sees Heero’s eyebrows draw down in frustration. _Great. Now he’s going to be mad at me while he puzzles out the rest of that sentence…_

And Heero does sound angry as he answers, tossing his head back defiantly. “What do you mean?” Duo turns his attention back to the suit in front of them, a frission of shock running through him as the cockpit door slides open. _Is he crazy?! There might still be Leos around. And how does he even know that he can trust us?_ The pilot steps out, small and lithe, chin tilted arrogantly forward. His hair is drawn back tight against his skull, and Duo notes with interest that he is of Asian descent, like Heero.

Distracted once more, he misses the beginning of the pilot’s tirade. “…you’ve all been lured into Oz’s devious little trap.” A chill run’s down Duo’s spine, and he turns wide violet eyes to the screen that holds his vid link to Wing. Heero is stiff, all of his muscles clenched, and Duo watches the blood drain rapidly from his face. “Check out the Alliance’s report,” the pilot continues, sneering. “You’ve just wiped out the Alliance’s _pacifists_.”

“…impossible.” Duo hears Heero whisper, and sees lights flicker over the boy’s face as he presumably pulls up the most recent Alliance transmissions. Duo quickly draws them up as well, seeing the Alliance military general spring up onto his screen.

“We all became Oz’s puppets,” the newcomer finishes, and Duo smashes his hand against his console, silencing the bleating of a man that Duo is sure is also one of Oz’s toys. The pilot is still snapping out condemnations on another screen, but Duo pays him no more mind than he did the Alliance general. He looks up in time to see a darkness sweep over Heero’s eyes, an inhuman fury blowing out his pupils. It only lasts an instant before the anger fades, like sand seeping through an hourglass, and leaves only a dead emptiness behind. Heero’s head falls against his chest, pale skin startling against the deep green of his shirt, and Duo’s hands clench in fury.

“Damn you,” Duo snarls, and he’s not entirely certain if he’s cursing Oz, Treize, or this random stranger who has driven Heero into such a desolate hole.

“What have I…” Duo hears Heero’s broken whisper and reaches out toward the screen, feeling a tearing ache in his chest. He fights down the urge to throw himself out of his cockpit and onto Wing. “…what have I done?” Heero finishes, voice choking on the last word, and Duo could scream at the agony of such an impossibly strong man brought so low.

 


	9. When You See My Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heero is struggling for some semblance of control, shattering under the strain of so many impossible expectations. Duo is breaking beneath the weight of all of the sins he bears, unable to cope with all of the blood guilt on his soul. They both are desperate to find an outlet for their living nightmares. Redemption is a whipping post, a hair shirt, a long line of flagellants waiting to be punished. Redemption can only be achieved through pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emotionally distraught everyone. Sorry it took so long to get this chapter out, but it's extra long to make up for it!

The dragon-headed Gundam disappears off the battlefield, pilot raving something about going to destroy Kushrenada. Duo murmurs an absent well-wishing under his breath, all of his attention focused on his link with Heero’s suit. Heero sits paralyzed in his seat, hands slack on the controls, and Duo can only helplessly watch as his lover sinks further into his tormented thoughts. His face is blank and strangely open, though Duo doubts anyone else would notice the vulnerability written in his tightly drawn lips, his hooded blue eyes. The orange suit moves off as well, chest opening up to rain hell onto the advancing Leos. Duo taps a quick command into Deathscythe, bringing up heat sensors and calculations. The enemy is taking advantage of their stunned immobility, advancing to their position.

Another comm. link beeps in his ear, and he identifies it as the remaining suit before he flicks the switch that will throw it to his Gundam’s speakers. “We totally screwed up this entire mission,” the other pilot says, sounding horrified. Duo hears a low growl and winces, realizing that Heero must have heard it as well. He lifts his eyes to the other boy, sees his body shaking with barely repressed fury. Failure is Heero’s kryptonite, Duo is coming to realize. First the girl, then the torpedoes when he failed to protect his suit, now this breakdown over an incorrectly followed mission plan. _Oh, Heero_. _You can’t possibly expect yourself to be perfect_.

A surge of determination sweeps through him, and Duo knows in that instant that he will do anything to protect Heero from failure. “Let’s go after Treize,” he snarls, “we can still catch up with him!”

The other pilot stops him in his tracks as his hands are jetting forward to snatch Scythe’s controls. “That’s not wise.” Duo spins his Gundam toward the dark-armored interloper, jabbing his suit forward a step. He switches the link to two-way communication and lets Shinigami into his voice. “Stay out of my way. Do you want me to shoot ya?”

The boy in front of him seems unruffled, voice calm and collected. “Our missions have always relied on attacking when they least expect it. The enemy clearly has the advantage right now.”

Duo releases a frustrated grunt, knowing that this stranger is right. They knew from the beginning that something had gone wrong, that this battle was different. The enemy was prepared, had outmaneuvered them, and this had happened. They were surrounded, and Heero was frozen with shock. Plus… he slides his thumb over the command trigger for the guns in Scythe’s helmet and receives only an empty whir. He’s out of ammo, his reserves exhausted, left with only his thermal scythe. Heero might call him cowardly for this decision, but he’s got to side with the decision to retreat.

His proximity alarm sounds and he jerks around in his harness, pulling up screens of information. Bullets are thrumming toward them, a line of enemies advancing on their position. “We didn’t get them all!” he calls out over the Gundam’s voice comm.

“Either way, let’s get out of here,” the other pilot comments, and he shifts his hands to his controls, initiating a twist away from the incoming hail of fire. Deathscythe and the black Gundam dive in opposite directions, heading away from the invading Leos. Duo switches his screen back to his rear, expecting to see Heero following in his wake, protecting his back as Heero always is, and finds only an empty space.

“Heero?” There’s no answer from Wing, and Duo can see the boy sitting calmly in his harness, eyes closed. _He looks almost peaceful, bullets flying at him, refusing to protect himself… he looks like he’s preparing to die_. “Don’t just stand there, Heero!”

A wave of relief sweeps through him as Heero’s eyes open, serene and determined. That relief is overwhelmed by horror as Heero shifts, only to completely power down his Gundam. Wing opens its arms in a motion of surrender, leaving both the suit and its pilot exposed to the steadily approaching Leos.

The other pilot’s voice drifts quietly into his ears, and he notices that the link is private. “We can’t just leave him… he’s one of us.”

Duo shakes his head, jabbing out at Heero. “How long do you expect us to look after you?” He’s expecting some sort of response – a twitch, a growl, an indication of fury. Heero never was particularly skilled at controlling his temper. Nothing. He switches his comm. output and responds to the other pilot. “What are we supposed to do, sacrifice ourselves and our suits for him? Oz would kill to get their hands on even one of the Gundams, and you’re suggesting we give them three.”

Deathscythe rocks under the storm of bullets, and Duo sinks his mecha into a crouch, shield raised in front of his helmet. The assault rains off of the Gundanium armor, sparking around his suit. He hopes that he’s deflecting some of the fire from Wing and Heero, who is still completely vulnerable to assault. A pair of rockets slips by Deathscythe’s blind side and explodes against Wing’s chest, sending the suit slamming into the ground. Massive clouds of dust plummet into the air, obscuring the suit, and Duo’s eyes franticly dart to the intact vid screen. A panicked sound escapes Duo’s mouth as Heero is thrown up against the console, a grunt of pain echoing into Scythe’s cockpit. Duo is shifting his Gundam, moving toward Wing, prepared to stand over the other boy and go down in flames if it means that Heero will survive.

_Don’t know when I got all stupid and heroic… never woulda thought that a street rat from L2 would get a sense of honor, but I can’t let him die. Can’t let someone else die._

An unfamiliar voice sounds over their joined communication systems, coming from the base’s PA system. Heero’s eyes open, alert and surprised, and Duo exhales a silent prayer of thanks. He touches the cross beneath his shirt, tucked tight against his chest from the harness. He might have quite a few quarrels with God, but the big man upstairs seems to be hearing his requests to keep Heero alive, so He can’t be all that bad. Wing lifts itself off the ground, glancing at the speakers attached to the demolished base. Duo chuckles to himself, relief flooding him and lightening his heart, switching over to receive the incoming message. He’s surprised that the speakers are even functioning, considering the massive destruction they’d wrought on the buildings. If the Alliance built their bases the way they apparently built their PA system, Duo’s job might be a bit more difficult.

He catches the tail end of an alarming transmission. “Detonation… large missiles activated… Oz is planning on blowing the base apart.” _What?! As if they haven’t done enough to us_. The other pilot cuts into his self-righteous rant to confirm the anonymous tip, and adds that there are not one, not two, but forty seven missiles beneath their unwitting feet. Duo briefly wonders how sacrilegious it would be to retract his prayers, since clearly no one is looking out for them anymore. He settles for concocting a number of unusual and vicious curses beneath his breath, and readies his suit for a swift and possibly futile retreat.

“We have to go!” Duo insists, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

“There’s no way we’ll get out in time,” the other pilot comments, concern lacing his voice. _I don’t have a damn clue how he sounds so fucking calm right now_ , Duo grumbles to himself, pulling up speed and explosion calculations. The woman is still droning over the intercom, and he wonders why the Oz forces haven’t taken out the whole system. Surely they must realize that this mysterious person is exposing all of their not-so-secret plans.

“…deactivate the missiles, Heero.”

Duo laughs, then, certain that Heero will, in his deadpan way, tell this stranger who somehow knows his name to go fuck herself. His laugh is cut off, bubbling uncomfortably in his throat, as Wing shifts into flight mode and launches away from them, heading to the underground silo.

Duo has a second of forethought to switch to a private channel. “Heero, what are you doing?! You’ll never make it in time, and you’ll get us all killed. What are you trying to prove?”

“Leave then, if you doubt me.” His voice sounds strange, a tone that Duo would almost say was hurt, if he didn’t know better. Heero didn’t do expression in his voice, not to Duo, not unless they were in bed, and he certainly didn’t express a weakness such as pain. “A failed mission means death but my card hasn’t come up yet.”

Duo hears the other pilot cheering Heero on and switches to a separate channel. “You’re totally confident that he’s going to succeed, and you don’t even know him.”

As if he’s read Duo’s mind, or somehow heard the doubts expressed to the stranger in their midst, Heero’s voice comes floating over their still-open link. “Someone has to believe in me, since you won’t.” And Duo definitely hears it that time. Disappointment, that Duo doesn’t trust him. Betrayal, that Duo could have such a lack of faith in his skills. And bitterness, that he is even in this position to begin with. Watching Heero prepare to exit his Gundam, dropping into a bunker filled with live missiles, Duo knows he can’t leave it like this. Not if these are the last words they’ll exchange.

“It’s all up to you now, buddy. Go for it…we’re all counting on you. I’ve got to say, you’re quite the soldier.” He can’t hold back the bitterness in his own voice, that he is left with such a sterile goodbye. And he can’t bite back the words that slip out of his mouth on the heels of his appropriate speech, the words that drip with his own pain. “…still doesn’t excuse your mistakes as a person.”

Duo and the other Gundam pilot spring into motion, Duo toward the mobile suit carriers and the black suit toward the remaining enemy troops. Letting his mind go into autopilot, Duo preps the two carriers that will carry them away from the devastation… if Heero succeeds. He hears confirmation that the runway will be clear for them, trying to ignore the clangor of alarms as he checks fuel levels and runs damage assessments. It’s always a bit dodgy relying on enemy carriers to fly them out of bases that they’ve destroyed – there’s no guarantee that the planes will emerge intact. Both of the carriers he’s chosen seem intact, and he settles Deathscythe in the belly of the first plane. As he sinks into the pilot’s seat, beginning the launch sequence, he opens the audio channels to keep an ear on his fellow pilots. “Hopefully we’re not wasting our time,” he mutters, hoping that Heero is out of range of that particular transmission.

 

* * *

 

 

Heero squirms his way through another measure of ventilation piping, resenting once more that he of all people was called on to fix this issue. He clearly isn’t capable – he just single-handedly destroyed all chances of a peace treaty between earth and the colonies – and yet they put the lives of this entire base in his hands. Reaching the end of the tunnel, he finds iron bars blocking the way and shakes his head. For a normal person, this would be the end of the road. A tiny air shaft, cold steel against his grasping hands, the whine of sirens and alarms in his ears. But J had done his job well, and the steel twists and yields under Heero’s insistent grasp. There’s something to be said for genetic modification, and Heero would smirk in satisfaction if he weren’t so deeply mired in self-hatred.

The controls loom in front of him, a mocking green blip dashing back and forth across a thin screen. If he doesn’t pull down the lever at precisely the right instant… and time is fleeing before him, counting down seconds, down to the wire. Down below ten seconds, below five, below three, he ignores the sweat dripping into his eyes and slams down the lever. The timer stops, alarm shutting down with a discontented shriek, and he drops his head to the metal floor in relief. He doesn’t know what he would do if he’d let the others down, not that he would have had time to think about it. He drags one hand across his face, flinging droplets of sweat and soaked hair out of his eyes.

_I can’t believe that Duo has so little faith in me. He thinks I can’t succeed at anything. He thinks I will fail every task I attempt to complete!_

He takes a moment to let the rage and disappointment flood his system, trying to discern whether the emotions are aimed at himself or at his wayward partner. _I don’t have time for this. Even now, when he isn’t here, he is a distraction_.

He drags himself from the missile bunker, catching a last glimpse of the menacing explosives that almost destroyed them all. He should feel satisfied, but all he can remember is his blade slicing through the Oz ship, and the mocking words of the transmission “ _You’ve just destroyed the pacifists_.”

Leaning against the foot of his Gundam, he lets his eyes sweep over the desolated battlefield. “What a miserable mission. I screwed up.” A pair of deep violet eyes swim across his vision, shadowed with sadness and disappointment. A face that would be soft with pleasure if not twisted with agony. Bloodstains on the sterile white sheets of a cold and empty room. The door clicking shut on muted sobs as he slinks away from his bedmate. “I totally screwed up.”

 

* * *

  

Duo slams his carrier none-too-gently into the hangar, the wheels screeching in protest. He shuts down the engines with a few well-placed prods of his slender fingers, mouth set in a thin line. Over the flight from that disastrous mission he realized that he was, for lack of a more polite phrase, fucking pissed off. It’s not just that, after all of the shit Heero’s done to him, he’s decided to be hurt that Duo doesn’t believe in him. It’s not just that, after Duo’s brain decided that he was going to pull off some heroic self-sacrificing to save Heero’s ass, the dumb bastard insisted on trying to single-handedly disarm forty-odd giant missiles. It’s not even that Heero responded to some complete stranger after blatantly ignoring Duo’s frantic pleas for him to wake the fuck up and fight. Well, maybe that last part has something to do with his attitude. What has really gotten Duo’s non-existent panties in a twist is that, after all of the shit that Heero’s put him through, he still has the capacity to hurt Duo like this… to hurt him with nothing more than that sharp, disappointed undertone in his voice. To hurt him with nothing more than _Leave then, if you doubt me_ , with the certainty that Duo will let him down just as every other person in Heero’s life certainly has.

“Fuck!” His sudden curse echoes around the cockpit and he rips the carrier’s harness off. Taking off at full-tilt out of the cabin, the thump of his heavy boots ricochet around the metal walls and return mockingly to his ears, sounding strangely like a heartbeat. _Run. Run, sweet boy, but you can’t escape your heart. The way it ebbs and flows, the way it clings even as it flees._

He shifts his exhausted body into overdrive, ignoring the protest of his screaming muscles, ignoring the bruises slammed deep into every body and tendon, purpling every inch of skin. His feet blur over the steel grating as he rockets toward the belly of the ship, desperate to return to the sanctuary of his Gundam. His one safe place. The place he can launch himself out of the atmosphere and finally find some room to breathe.

A muffled sob wrenches from his chest when he catches sight of the gleaming black figure, and he almost has to stop and catch his breath as his chest tightens with emotion. Sometimes he craves the steady reliance of his suit so urgently that it almost strangles him. He claws his way up the exposed metal rubs and crawls into the cockpit, curling into a ball on the seat that has been molded to his slender frame through g-force and tracer rounds. His lungs heave, struggling to suck in air through his compressed windpipe, heartbeat pounding rapidly in his ears. _Have to get away._ And the drumming of his pulse sounds suspiciously like _run. Run. RUN._

Sitting up, he yanks the harness around himself and tightens the straps, hissing through bared teeth as the familiar weight settles over already bruised flesh. Welcoming the pain, he sinks back with a calming sensation of coming home. The hatch at the back of the plane lowers slowly, revealing the inky night framed by the hangar’s gaping doors. Deathscythe sits up with a mechanical groan, and Duo pats the console with a sympathetic murmur. “I know, pal. I hurt too. But I hafta get us out of here, and then we can rest. Promise.”

Deathscythe’s boosters hum to life as Duo eases his hands forward, letting their ascent come gently for once. They both need a break. And he can’t fucking wait to drink himself into a stupor with Howard while the salvage crew gives Deathscythe the mecha equivalent of a massage. The suit steps out from the metal shelter of the hangar, and Duo pauses for a moment to open up all screens to an outside view. The night sky shimmers around him, stars flickering across the expanse like bullet holes in a swathe of midnight velvet. He gazes up at the moon, wordless, a fierce longing tugging at his insides. _Soon. Soon this hell will be over, and I will return to the stars._

 

* * *

 

 

Heero hears the harsh whine of the engines as he pushes the carrier past its limits. By the time he’d tucked Wing securely into the cargo area of the plane, Duo’s jet had vanished from the base. The boy had fled like a bat out of hell, leaving Heero short-circuiting his start-up routine in an attempt to catch him. It was a lost cause. Heero had seen Duo convince mechanical objects to perform seemingly impossible feats, including moving at paces far past their official specifications. This time was no exception, and he could only watch in helpless fury as the braided boy’s plane disappeared into the skies.

He attempted to open up a link from the cockpit of his plane, since their open link was sealed in the belly with Wing. “Duo?” He heard only a dull buzz of static before the line was abruptly cut, leaving him with a silence so complete that it reverberated in his head.

_Shit._ He rarely cursed. At least, he used to be able to say that. It seemed that the foul language slipped out of his mouth more and more often, especially where Duo was concerned. Something about that boy brought out the worst in him. _The worst, maybe, but the best, too_. A nagging voice murmured. _He makes you human. Makes you something more than the senseless machine that J wants you to be. He gives you options._ Heero shakes his hand, tightening his fingers on the controls of the plane. _He makes me weak_ , he rationalizes, playing devil’s advocate against himself.

His inner voice is quiet for a moment, processing, and he squeezes the stick forward, coaxing a hint more speed out of the already protesting engines. _He makes you weak only to him. He has not lessened your efficiency in battle. He has… protected you from enemies, provided you with parts for your suit, given you a physical outlet._

Duo’s face floats before his eyes, lines of pleasure swept across the stark cheekbones, the beautifully angular jaw. He forces the image away, with difficulty, knowing that he can’t linger long on the pleasure without the guilt of the pain inflicted by his hands seeping in. _He is still a weakness_.

_Ah, yes_ , his mind intones, sounding suspiciously like his childhood mentor, _but he has never used it against you. You need someone to watch your back._

He stiffens as a memory surfaces, the assassin who raised him whispering those words in his ear. “Stay with me, kid, I need someone to watch my back.” Gentle hands, callused from labor and gun handling, teaching him how to care for a weapon, how to move silently, how to kill quickly and relentlessly and without shame. Heero hadn’t trusted anyone to watch his back since Odin had died, the assassin brought down by a bounty hunter in a cruel streak of irony. Brought down on the one mission when he had left Heero behind. No one to watch his back. And now, he fears he may have driven Duo away, terrified by the weakness the other boy instills in him, afraid of the Duo-shaped cracks in the façade of his soldier uniform.

_I have to fix this._

He flings his proximity sensors as wide open as they will go, hacking the parameters one handed to get every inch of space possible within the detection range. It’s because of this that he sees the tiny blip, moving quickly away from his charted destination. The jet identifies it as a mobile suit, unknown origin, type unconfirmed. In other words, since every existing Alliance suit was registered in the system, a Gundam. He opens a channel, cautiously, sending out a ping to the fleeing suit. The signal is rejected, buffeted away from a mile-high firewall, and the Gundam disappears from his radar. It wasn’t moving fast enough to have slipped out of range in the second or so that had elapsed, and Heero notes the heat register still manifesting a blip.

His pulse skyrockets. Why is Duo running from him? One hand laces into his hair, yanking at the chocolate locks, and he can feel a slow spiral beginning in his gut. _Enough!_ He downs the plane with a sudden thrust of the controls, crashing the jet into an empty field, thankful that his impulse hadn’t landed him in a forest or an ocean. Dirt and debris spray up around the belly of the carrier as the steel twists and tears, shorn apart by the reckless landing. The plane skids to a stop, tail spinning the whole vehicle around, one wing tearing partially away from the tattered fuselage. Before the momentum is even settled he is out of his seat, balancing his faltering steps against the sway of the shuddering bird. He slams himself into Wing’s cockpit, initiating the launch sequence before he is confined in his seat. Wing lifts up with a squeal of metal, easily shredding the entrapping metal with a few swipes of its thermal blade. With the jab of a button, the Gundam leaps into the air, twisting free of the desiccated hulk of the carrier, and morphs effortlessly into flight form. He locks onto the quickly departing signal of Deathscythe’s engines, inputting an automatic trajectory calculation, and slams his hands forward into the controls. Wing responds readily with a burst of firepower, chasing the faint trails of Deathscythe’s departure like a hound released for the hunt.

Heero grabs for his harness as he is shoved against the console, a low grunt of pain escaping his lips as his body registers just how much abuse he’s put it through. At last assessment, bone-deep bruises were rising on his chest, his shoulder was about ready to pop out of its socket, a few ribs were cracked to the point of inhibiting movement, and he was weary down to his non-existent soul.

He finally manages to struggle into the bindings of his harness and reaches for the communication controls. “Duo… I know you can hear me… you left this link open.” He waits a moment, not expecting an answer, but not about to continue if Duo is going to snap the line off in a childish fit of pique. The link remains active, a silently blinking green light the only answer he is receiving. “I… I want to talk to you, Duo. I think…” He clenches his fists around the controls. The words are at his lips, bursting to be released past teeth too clenched by habit to let them free. Even now, even after all Duo has seen, he cannot admit to folly. Cannot admit that he should have performed better. “… I think we should talk about that mission. We could utilize our partnership better. We need to plan for the integration of the other pilots, or plan to eliminate them as a threat if the assessment is that they will not be beneficial.”

“Always about the mission with you, isn’t it?” Duo sounds exhausted, his voice cracked and barely audible.

“Will you not discuss it with me? I feel that we have similar parameters,” Heero states carefully, tiptoeing around the sneer he hears in Duo’s tone.

“We have similar something, alright. Fuck! I can’t fucking believe you,” Duo spits out, angry words crackling over their line. The Gundam up ahead increases speed, dropping a level of stealth over itself. It flits in and out of Heero’s radar, Wing picking up the signal in stuttering blips.

“Duo… please.”

“Please what, Heero? I can’t. I’m done. Don’t you get it?”

“Duo, stop! Stop running.”

Wing’s engines shriek as Heero forces more out of the thrusters, the Gundam sweeping agilely through the air. He’s gaining ground. Wing is the only suit created with a flight-specific alteration, and even the quickest and stealthiest of the suits, Deathscythe, isn’t a match for the winged Gundam. His proximity alarms scream as he plunges into the black Gundam, sending both suits plummeting to the ground. Shifting his suit in midair, he wraps Gundanium arms around the other mecha and attempts to slow their hasty descent.

“What the fuck, Heero?!” Duo screams at him, and alarms ping up on all screens as Deathscythe’s heavy fists pummel Wing’s ivory sides.

They plunge into a thicket, trees snapping like twigs beneath the weight of their metal bodies. Deathscythe is still flailing and twisting in his grip, the pilot cursing him with steadily increasing volume. Heero spins them carefully, maneuvering the suits so that Wing hits the ground first, the impact jarring the breath from his lungs. He breathes shallowly, carefully, not entirely certain that he hasn’t finished breaking a few of those fractured ribs. Panting breaths echo around Wing’s speakers, and it takes him a moment to realize that they are slightly out of sync with his own. Shit. Duo.

“…are you okay?” he manages, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Fuck you, Heero. Maybe you shoulda thought about that when you were dragging me out of the fucking sky. Who the _fuck_ does that?”

“I…” he swallows, forcing down his pride. “I apologize for that, Duo, but I didn’t see any other way. I need to talk to you.”

The black mecha struggles for a moment, straining to get up, before Duo realizes that Wing’s grip hasn’t slackened in the slightest. “Let me go, Heero. I don’t have anything to say to you.” The braided boy’s voice is deadly, slightly feral.

“I can’t,” Heero whispers, his voice shaking. “I can’t let you go. God damnit, why can’t I let you go?!”

His head is spinning. The world is slightly blurred, jarred out of alignment by the damnable pain in his ribs and the confusion wreaking havoc in his brain. The only clear thought in his mind, the only acceptable mission objective, is Duo. Duo, the only success he’s had lately, the only one who makes him feel grounded, the only part of his life that he has any control over. He needs Duo. His fingers itch, wanting to feel the tantalizing combination of soft skin, pilot’s calluses, and soldier’s scar tissue beneath them. Before he can get a grip on his rampant thoughts, he’s shoving against the door of the chamber, forcing the hatch open with an atrocious grating noise.

With Deathscythe pressed against its chest, he can barely get Wing’s cockpit open. He shoves himself into the tiny crack, clothing shredding as he leaves bits of it behind. Staggering out, bleeding from Gundanium abrasions, he flings himself onto Deathscythe’s torso. He lays down against the emerald door, gold ringing the hatch like a halo, hearing Duo like a siren song beyond the layers of impermeable metal. Pressing his cheek against the cold surface, he prays that Duo has his external audio on.

“Please let me in, Duo. I need you.”


	10. Rest in Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heero is struggling for some semblance of control, shattering under the strain of so many impossible expectations. Duo is breaking beneath the weight of all of the sins he bears, unable to cope with all of the blood guilt on his soul. They both are desperate to find an outlet for their living nightmares. Redemption is a whipping post, a hair shirt, a long line of flagellants waiting to be punished. Redemption can only be achieved through pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Canon character 'death' in this chapter.  
> Also, explicit sexual content.

 

_“Please let me in, Duo. I need you.”_

Duo sinks back into the cradle of his seat, exhausted. Bone-weary and heart-sick, he lets his head drop back and stares blankly at the screens arrayed in front of him. The heat sensors glare at him, the chest of his Gundam lit up like an explosion of color. His eyes drift to the hatch, to where Heero is curled up on his suit in a helpless tangle of limbs.

_Let me in. I need you._ The words race down the corridors of his mind, mocking and haunting the vacant passageways. _I need you_. How did they get here? How did they get from a couple of drunken child soldiers searching for a quick fuck to a mated pair of lost souls? How did they get from “I don’t need to know your name as long as you’ll let me fuck you” to “I need you”?

Duo knows exactly what it’s like to need someone that desperately, to require someone like the pulse beneath your skin, to crave someone so much that you drag them from the skies in a tangle of steel and sparks. His heart clenches in his chest, squeezing tight against his ribs until the agony runs down his arm. It settles in his hand and he lifts the aching limb to his chest, massaging his fingers.

“I need you,” drifts slowly over the speakers, Heero’s defeated voice tinny and hoarse.

“I know,” Duo whispers, though Heero can’t hear him. He bows his head, eyes clenched shut until stars burst behind his eyelids. He fists his hands in his hair, pulling until the bursts of light in his eyes turn red with strain. _I need you too. I wish I could forget you. I wish I’d never walked into that bar. Now you’re in my blood like a virus and I can’t seem to shake your symptoms._ “Shit,” he mutters, teeth clamped around a whine of confusion.

He extends his hand toward the hatch release, fingers shaking like leaves tossed about in a storm. He misses the button, forces his shivering skin to still, and then presses down with a fierce determination. He hears Heero scramble off the door as it begins to swing open, and daylight shoots through the space like a thermal beam. Duo is raising his arm to block the sunlight from his eyes when Heero collides with him, all sweat slicked skin and searching fingers. Insistent hands lace through the hair at the nape of his neck and their lips meet in surge of teeth and tongues. Heero climbs further onto him, straddling his seat, clinging desperately to the strands of his braid, and kisses him so fervently that he sees stars. It’s never been like this before. Duo has always been the needy one, has always been the one starved for the touch of lips, of tongues, of fingers, has always been the one who drinks Heero in like a man escaping the desert sun.

And now Heero is here, pleading with Duo to let him in, kissing Duo like he’s trying to climb into his chest and live beside his heart. Just as Duo’s oxygen starved lungs begin to heave with the insistent demand to breathe, Heero pulls away. Their lips separate in a slow tug, just far enough for them to draw in air, close enough that they share the same ebb and flow of breath.

“Thank you,” Heero gasps, forehead pressed against Duo’s, skin scorching against his.

Duo parts his lips to answer but Heero is kissing him again, softer this time. Gently, even. This isn’t a kiss – it’s an apology, a ‘don’t leave me,’ an ‘I need you.’ His hands slide out of Duo’s braid and smooth out the wrinkles of his black shirt, pausing to fumble with the buckles of his harness. His lips trail away from Duo’s, tongue darting out to taste the clean lines of Duo’s jaw, the hint of blood on his skin from the firefight.

Duo glances down at the harness, surprised that his nimble-fingered partner is having difficulties releasing him, and is shocked to find that Heero’s hands are shaking, faltering over the system of straps. “Heero…” he murmurs, and Heero lifts his head. His eyes are wide, eyebrows pinned together in a startling display of anxiety.

He glances down at Duo’s harness and then lifts his gaze again, panic rising in the ocean blue depths of his eyes. “I can’t… I need…” He swallows, a click in his throat as he struggles to string the words together, and he tugs at the buckle with a muted noise of frustration.

Duo lays his hands over his lover’s more than capable digits, stilling the flustered, twitchy motions of his skin. “Let me.” Duo slides under Heero’s hands, calluses from Wing’s controls scraping across his own battered knuckles, and releases the harness in a swift motion. Heero slips his hands through the straps, shoving them aside, and begins working at the buttons of Duo’s shirt. A startled expression crosses Duo’s face and he grabs at his collar, almost dislodging Heero’s grip on the dark fabric.

Heero glances up at him, wariness written in the strained lines of his face. He releases Duo’s shirt and backs away slightly, a hint of a blush tinting his cheekbones. Duo snakes an arm behind him and halts his retreat, carefully removing the white collar from his shirt with his free hand. Reaching around Heero, he places it reverently in a compartment of Scythe’s console and seals it away. He offers Heero a sheepish grin and shrugs. “Sorry about that… jus’ that no one’s touched it since Fa… since I got it. Nothin’ personal.” He pauses, noticing Heero visibly withdrawing back into himself. Leaning forward, he threads his fingers through the rough tangle of Heero’s hair and meshes their lips together. Heero is rigid as their lips press together, not responding, and Duo has a second to worry that his panic-button response has ruined the moment before Heero is pushing him back down against the seat.

 

* * *

 

Heero stills as Duo’s hands push him away, and for a moment he is terrified that Duo regrets letting him in. _This was a mistake._ Blood is rushing to his face in an embarrassing display of shame, and he shifts a hint in an attempt to put some distance between their bodies. The comforting security of Duo’s forearm slides against his spine and he pauses, studying the long-haired boy’s face. Duo draws a strip of white fabric from the top of his shirt and leans forward to secure it somewhere in the depths of his Gundam’s controls.

He stiffens at Duo’s words, an uncomfortable sensation of disappointment sweeping through him. _No one has touched it… you’d think you could trust me after all this time. It’s clearly important to you but I thought-_

He’s snapped out of his thoughts as the caressing heat of Duo’s mouth covers his lips, and he traces Duo’s lower lip with his tongue. A giddy awareness floods him as Duo’s lips part on a muffled moan, and he nips at Duo’s bottom lip with his teeth. He swallows Duo’s startled grunt and glides his hands into the other boy’s shirt, dropping the dark fabric off his shoulders. Ducking his head, he nudges Duo’s jaw with the top of his head, baring the long line of the boy’s neck. A pleased growl rumbles in Heero’s throat and he leans into the radiating warmth of Duo’s body, hands busy with the twitch of muscles across his lover’s back. He licks a line up the pulse point, a feral smile curling his lips at the whine from the other boy. The noise is cut off as he sinks his teeth into the juncture of neck and shoulder, replaced by a tearing sound as Duo’s hands shred the back of Heero’s shirt. Heero sits up, raising an eyebrow at the panting boy as the tatters of his olive tanktop drift to the floor of Deathscythe.

Duo takes that second to run his hands up Heero’s bared torso, catching the droplets of sweat coursing down his finely muscled abs. Heero’s head falls back, hips rolling in an involuntary movement at the surge of lust triggered by Duo’s touch. Clever fingers slip past the waistband of his shorts, twisting around to wrap around Heero’s cock. His head spins as fireworks explode in front of his eyes, pleasure overwhelming his sense. He rips himself away from Duo’s impatient strokes, grunting as his knees meet the Gundanium floor of the cockpit. Hooking his fingers in the other boy’s pants, he yanks at them until Duo lifts his hips, dropping the fabric heedlessly to their feet.

Heero eyes the length of Duo’s shaft, recalling the mind-blowing sensation of lips around his own cock. Leaning forward, he tilts his head and tentatively flattens his tongue, dragging it from root to tip. Duo’s hips buck and a strangled cry tears from his throat. Heero breathes on the wet patch, watching goosebumps rise along Duo’s hips and thighs. Admiring his handiwork, he leans in to graze his tongue across the glistening head when Duo’s hands thrust into his hair and yank. Finding himself face to face with his wide-eyed partner, he offers a bemused smile and then, eyes darkening, licks his lips. Duo growls, low in his throat, and velcros their lips together. He’s all reverberating snarls and tiny nips and tantalizing curls of his tongue around Heero’s, and he finally separates enough to murmur, “want you. Now.”

Heero’s eyes roll back slightly as that voice hits his libido like an atom bomb. Duo shoves at the skintight fabric of his shorts, rolling the waistband down until it melts to a puddle at their feet. Impatient fingers wrap around Heero’s cock and his balance falters, breath rushing from his lungs. He braces himself against the back of the seat and dips his head, teasing Duo’s earlobe into his mouth. His exhale rushes through his teeth in a hiss as Duo’s callused palm strokes his length, breath curling along Duo’s skin until a shiver wracks his slender frame. A needy whine catches Heero’s attention, and he runs an appreciative glance down Duo’s body to find the braided boy thrusting into his own hand. “Please, Heero…” he whimpers.

Heero eyes the confines of the tiny cockpit, the fact that they’re already cramped in the small space. “How?” Duo squirms out of the seat, twisting around until Heero falls into the vacated padding. He sinks into the mold of Duo’s body, groaning softly as the heat from Duo’s skin swamps him. Duo straddles him, head bowing over his until they sit thigh to thigh, foreheads pressed together. His braid tumbles between them, stray strands of hair sticking to their chests and tangling them together.

Duo tips his hips, lining himself up with the glistening head of Heero’s cock, and Heero sees the tiniest twitch in his facial muscles. With a spark of realization, he runs his hand down his chest, gathering the rivulets of sweat in his palm. Reaching beneath his partner, he slicks his shaft, grunting at the wet heat against his silken skin. Duo’s head is thrown back, face slack with pleasure, and his lips part on a soft “oh!” as Heero’s free hand finds his cock.

He sinks down onto Heero, searing heat sheathing him inch by lingering inch. Heero forces his fluttering eyelids open, transfixed by the way the pleasure transforms his lover’s face. He grazes his hand leisurely over the velvet-coated steel of Duo’s shaft, pleased by the flush that coats the other boy’s cheekbones. Duo’s ass finally kisses the muscles of Heero’s thighs, and they exhale softly in unison. “You feel so goddamn good,” Heero murmurs, voice throaty and low, and Duo convulses around him at the words.

Heero trails his fingers down Duo’s chest, pausing to ring each nipple with a feathery touch. Duo whimpers in the back of his throat and begins to move, leg muscles gliding beneath his skin as he lifts himself, letting gravity drag him back down Heero’s cock. Heat builds in the cockpit as they move together, Heero meeting Duo with every thrust, hand matching the motion of their hips. Sweat trickles down his temples and he lifts one hand to dash it away, tightening his fingers along Duo’s pistoning shaft.

Duo’s breathing is labored, eyes glazing over as his body spirals rapidly toward climax. He stutters a nearly incoherent string of words, forcing them out around the rising moans. “Wanted to make this last but… uhn… not gonna take much more.” His movements become more erratic, hips twitching desperately as he plummets toward the edge.

Heero is fighting off his own orgasm, encouraging Duo with skilled strokes of his hand, angling his hips to hit the spot that makes Duo arch into him with an unintelligible shriek. Duo explodes around him with a satisfied howl, Heero’s named screamed out mid-climax. It’s his name, poured from Duo’s lips like an offering to the gods, that sends Heero over the edge with him. His hand tightens around Duo’s hips as he rides the waves of pleasure, fingers still curled loosely around his partner’s shaft to coax out the last remnants of seed.

Duo collapses against him, skin sticky with sweat and pleasure, and Heero trails his hand down Duo’s spine. The other boy nuzzles into him, breath coursing against his chest in short pants. Heero presses a kiss to the sweat-damp locks, smoothing stray hairs back into the braid. “That was incredible,” he murmurs, voice still rumbling with the afterglow. “Thank you for letting me in.”

 

* * *

 

Duo lies bonelessly against Heero’s chest, feeling the familiar languor suffusing his muscles. His heartbeat is slowing, submerged in the floaty post-orgasmic haze, and he absently registers a hand easing his damp bangs from his forehead. Heero’s words drift across his consciousness and he shifts uncomfortably, swallowing as the driving urge to run surfaces. It’s almost a wave of nausea that sweeps him as he is collapsed against his partner, and he twitches irritably as the warmth from their encounter dissipates. He levers himself away from the magnetic heat of Heero’s body, grunting in displeasure as their sticky skin separates. It’s downright sweltering in the cockpit, with the engines shut off and the filtering systems inactive.

Heero offers him a puzzled glance, reaching out to stroke a hand down his arm. “Where are you going?” Duo stares down at the hand, at the glisten of sweat slicking his forearm. He raises one shoulder and then drops it, a half-hearted shrug, refusing to meet Heero’s eyes.

“Oh, ya know, need some fresh air. Hot in here and all that.”

Heero’s hand snakes around his back, urging him to sink back into the oppressive warmth of his arms. “Do a partial start of the engine and run the air cycling. The ambient temperature should be sufficient to cool the cockpit,” Heero murmurs sleepily, scientific even with his mind fuzzed out.

Duo gently removes Heero’s encircling arm, wincing as their lower bodies separate. He steps into his pants, forced to crouch in the tiny space, and relaxes a touch as the clothing covers him like a shield. “Feel free to do that, buddy, but I gotta go. Be one with nature. Feel the breeze in my hair.”

He shrugs into his shirt, fingers deftly fastening the buttons, and reaches for his priest’s collar. Lifting it reverently to his lips, he whispers a memorial and slides it into place, straightening it a bit self-consciously under Heero’s curious gaze. He’s reaching for the button that will release the hatch when Heero catches his hand, eyebrows furrowed with concern.

“Duo, be serious for a minute. What’s going on?”

Duo can tell by his tone that the blissful, happy clown mask isn’t working. The smile crumbles off of his face and he meets Heero’s eyes with a stoic expression. “This is just what I do, Heero,” he mutters quietly. “It’s my mantra. I run, I hide, but I never tell a lie.” A self-depreciating smirk flickers onto his lips before it falls away.

A shadow rises behind Heero’s cobalt eyes, a tiny spark of hurt and abandonment. His face hardens, emotional distance etching itself over his features as the warmth seeps away. Duo watches the transformation, outwardly impassive, but his heart cringes as his passionate lover retreats behind the cold of a soldier’s killing gaze.

“…fine, Duo. Do what you must.” Duo removes his hand gently from Heero’s grasp and presses the button, stepping onto the platform as the door slides open. He’s readying a jump cable when Heero’s voice drifts out of the cockpit, small and hesitant. “…what does this mean for us?”

Duo closes his eyes against the surge of dismay and drops the line to the ground, hooking one foot in the anchor point. He doesn’t turn back to Heero, just offers his answer over his shoulder, quietly, not wanting to hear the response. “Don’t ask me that, Heero.”

 

* * *

 

Duo returns to the clearing as the sun is setting, sending gilded flames to lick along the battered shine of Deathscythe’s armor. His Gundam is arranged carefully among the trees, sitting solemnly in repose. The door is closed, the cockpit sealed. And Wing is nowhere in sight.

 

* * *

 

Heero is leaning against the balustrade, eyes tracing the waves as they lap at the shore. He narrows his eyes, flicking up to target the base that sits on the water like a malignant spider. Smoke pours out of the stacks, and he tilts his head slightly, considering the best angle of attack. His Gundam maneuvers better in air assaults, but the Oz soldiers would have to be blind not to notice him… granted, he’d succeeded in similar missions, but he did prefer caution over blatant disregard for his own safety. He had to remove himself from the equation more times than he could count, had forced himself into missions that were more or less suicide. He did what was needed. In reality, he didn’t believe that he would survive the war – ‘what needed to be done’ often involved a significant willingness to discount his own life as valuable.

_I wish I had the luxury of surviving, but I cannot afford to fail._

His morbid thoughts are interrupted by the steady pace of footsteps. He doesn’t shift, listening to the pattern of the movement. Soft, accustomed to not being heard. Yet heavy, intentionally allowing for notice, combat boots, small tread.

“Hey stranger,” a familiar voice sounds behind him, the footsteps ceasing a measurable distance away. Respecting his space. He swallows the bitterness of someone who knows him so well yet still keeps secrets beyond his understanding. Emitting a soft sigh, he spins in a clean about face and leans back against the railing.

“Why are you here?” He keeps his tone flat and uninteresting, praying that he doesn’t betray the leap in his blood at the sight of the long-haired boy.

Duo shoves his hands deep in the pockets of his school uniform, his customary smiling mask plastered across his face. His smile widens, the armor thickening, but Heero notices the tiny twitch in his eyelids. Hurt, he surmises, though Heero isn’t sure why.

“It’s natural for people our age to be in school, ya know, and this is where I happened ta land,” Duo chirps, a casual shrug rolling through his shoulders.

Heero remains silent as the seconds pass by, and Duo shifts from foot to foot. His lover always did hate silence… reality lingered in the space between words, and Duo was nothing if not constantly running from himself. “You stand out,” he finally grunts, letting a hint of annoyance linger in his words.

Duo stiffens, a flash of anger igniting in his violet eyes. “I stand out? Mr. Dark and Mysterious is tryin’ ta tell me that _I_ stand out? You are the most suspicious lookin’ motherfucker at this school. Maybe if you acted normal it would be a diff’rent story, but noo, you skulk around like the damn secret police.” A derisive sneer curls his lips before morphing into the ‘butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth’ grin. “Of course, you prob’ly don’t know how ta act normal.”

The blood drains from Heero’s face at Duo’s words. _Of course, you probably don’t know how to act normal._ Every hidden fear, in that tiny little phrase. Every secret anxiety. Every reason lined up against his survival in the war. _Because even if I did survive, what would I do? I don’t have any concept of normal. I’m a child soldier, raised and trained to kill. I can’t do anything else._ “Leave me alone,” he snaps, burying the hurt under fury.

Duo laughs, his mocking, maniacal battle laugh. “And stay out of your way, right? We’re after the same thing. I saw where ya were lookin’.”

“You didn’t see anything. You don’t know _anything._ ”

They hear the approaching footsteps at the same time, light and quick, and turn in unison toward the potential threat. Relena comes into view, blonde hair flying out behind her as she flits toward them. Duo meets his eyes, raises a sardonic eyebrow as she calls out Heero’s name, excitement clear in her voice.

“Well. She’s not your average girl, wanting to see the person who tried to kill her.”

“And what does that make you?” Heero inquires quietly, so only they can hear.

Duo opens his mouth, response dying on his tongue as Relena slips her arm around Heero’s bicep. Heero tips his head toward her, murmuring a subdued hello, but his expression softens as she greets him. As he doesn’t push her away. As he almost leans into her.

Duo’s hands clench into fists, knuckles whitening under the stress, and he turns sharply on heel to stalk away. Heero observes his retreating back, longing in his gaze, a volume of unsaid words in a single desperate glance.

 

* * *

 

Heero is in the computer lab, methodically erasing any trace of his existence at the school. He hears the pad of well-known footsteps, sees Duo appear in the reflection on the screen. The long-haired boy leans against the doorway, hands in his pockets. The mask is tucked away, worry shining out of his purple eyes.

“I’ve come to say goodbye,” Duo drops into the room. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”

Heero swivels the chair around as Duo steals closer, as Duo draws nearer until he slips between Heero’s knees. Heero tips his head up, mouth empty of words. He always was terrible at goodbyes. Duo pauses expectantly, hand brushing messy hair away from Heero’s eyes, waiting for a response. Acknowledging that he isn’t going to receive an answer, he sighs softly and bends down, resting one hand on the back of the chair.

He grazes an achingly tender kiss across Heero’s lips, lines of pain etched across his heart-shaped face. “Take care, Heero.”

 

* * *

 

Rage drains from Heero’s countenance, replaced by a lingering sensation of uneasiness. J is on the screen, thankfully responding to Oz’s threat against the colonies. _I can’t believe they would threaten the colonies because of us! You can’t request payment for the sins of a handful from the lives of a whole population._ The leaked plans were as they expected – traps, ones that they couldn’t avoid falling into. They couldn’t afford to risk the war on the assumption, correct though it was, that the carelessly released Oz missions were fake. So here he was, in the middle of a futile battlefield, standing trial for his participation. Trial by water, when he’d fallen from the skies into the oceans. Trial by fire, when he’d destroyed the pacifists and fled through the flames to Duo’s arms.

“…but we will _not_ surrender the Gundams!” J proudly proclaimed.

“Shit,” Heero mutters to himself. _Trial by blood. Wasn’t expecting it so soon._ He throws open his comm lines, glancing longingly at the private link to Deathscythe. _No time. Fuck_. “Mission accepted.”

Wing’s hatch opens smoothly, sunlight pouring into the cockpit. Into his coffin. He steps solemnly onto the platform, his Gundam rising above him like a guardian angel. One hand flickers out the pilot’s code, sending messages to his waiting comrades. Sending messages to Duo. He wishes they’d had a need for “I’m sorry,” but he makes do with the established signs. His other hand rises slowly, silver tube clutched in his palm. His redemption. The response to the blood streaking his murderous hands.

“Forgive me, Duo,” he whispers, and his thumb glides over the tiny red button.

A halo of light shines around him, faultlines in his Gundanium armor lit up like a starburst of warning signs. He lifts his eyes, gazing once more at the skies of his birth, before his Gundam explodes like an atom bomb.

 

* * *

 

Duo taps frantically at his keyboard, bringing up information across all screens. The Oz leader, Lady Une, revealing their Hail Mary, the weapon aimed at the helpless colonies. The strange scientist, drawn out of hiding by the horrifying threat, responding calmly in the face of utter destruction. The Gundams on the other line of attack, Wing and Heavyarms, external cameras giving him a view of the battlefield and of Wing. And the still-open link to Heero’s cockpit, where an alarming acceptance is dawning on his lover’s face.

He watches in horror as Heero nods, rising out of his pilot’s seat like an avenging seraphim. He reappears on Heavyarms’ external cameras, and Duo flicks his nervous gaze to that screen, focusing exclusively on the slim form of Wing’s pilot. Heero’s fingers begin moving, an absent twitch to any who didn’t know the pilot’s mission code. Duo mouths the words, terror rising in him like a malignant tide.

_Mission in danger. Threat terminated. Result regretful._

And, finally, their own sign, the one flickered between them on almost every mission, a reassurance and a promise, _I’ve got your back_. His heart rises into his throat, hopeful, and then plummets into his gut as Wing lights up like a celebratory parade. The ground drops out from under him, sending him floating with shock, and then slams up to meet him as shrapnel rains down on the battlefield. An unholy shriek is echoing over the comm link, an animalistic howl, and it’s only as Duo clutches his palms to his mouth that he realizes it emerges from him.

He barely registers that his hands are wet, that tears are streaming with unchecked grief down his bloodless face. Sinking nails into his cheeks, he presses until blood streams down in ribbons, following the trails of his sobbing.

He jams a hand down on his console, shutting down all communications, and shrieks. “You didn’t even say goodbye! You fucking left me, like everyone else! How could you, Heero? _How could you?_ ”

Lashing out, he jabs his fist into the wall of his Gundam, letting his knuckles impact until blood decorates the metal walls like splattered graffiti. His suit is rocking with the hail of bullets, the enemy celebrating the loss of Wing by assaulting the few remaining Gundams. With an incoherent scream of anguish, he rockets into the lines of troops, wreaking havoc among the fragile suits.

Tears flood down onto the controls as he moves, a seamless dance of death, but he is numb to everything save the dying shrieks of his enemy. The people who killed his lover. The people who killed the one person he had left to depend on, the only one he trusted to watch his back.

“If it’s the last thing I do, every last goddamn one of you will meet Shinigami, and _you will fucking pay!”_


	11. Chalk Outline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heero is struggling for some semblance of control, shattering under the strain of so many impossible expectations. Duo is breaking beneath the weight of all of the sins he bears, unable to cope with all of the blood guilt on his soul. They both are desperate to find an outlet for their living nightmares. Redemption is a whipping post, a hair shirt, a long line of flagellants waiting to be punished. Redemption can only be achieved through pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SERIOUS TRIGGER WARNING: There is a suicide attempt in this chapter. Please do not read if you are easily triggered. 
> 
> Sorry for the long delay between updates!

Duo slumps in his harness, defeated. The enemy troops are relentless, pounding themselves against the barrier of the Gundam defense. Deathscythe’s ammo is creeping dangerously low, fuel levels rapidly declining, and Duo is nearly exhausted. _Heero is gone_. He clenches his teeth as a wave of agony sweeps him, the ache reverberating from his heart down into his hands. _He didn’t even say goodbye. Did he know this was going to happen?_  


He backs Deathscythe from the entrapping layers of Leos, activating his stealth shield. His Gundam vanishes from sight, and he manages a pitiful little smile as the enemy comms light up with cries of dismay. Invisible to all but himself, he launches Deathscythe into the air and flees.

Sinking his Gundam into a copse of trees, shielded on one side by thick forest and the other by a sheer sandstone cliff, Duo spits out a curse. Running might be his motto, but that doesn’t mean that he enjoys the cowardice of retreat. “They should all be dead,” he snarls, clenching his hands around the controls of his immobile Gundam. “They should be suffering for their part in … all of this.” He still can’t bring himself to say it, can’t bear to speak the words out loud. Maybe if he keeps it trapped in the misty confines of his skull, he can keep it from being a reality. They say if you tell someone what you wish for, it won’t come true. Well maybe if he wishes hard enough, Heero will come back. Will sweep onto the battlefield in his shining Gundam, a knight in Gundanium armor astride a massive ivory stallion. Will appear on Duo’s six and save him from a stray Leo that didn’t pop up on his sensors.

His fingers tap rapidly over the keys, switching from area maps to thermal troop movement sensors. The enemy has ringed his position, moving in a fashion that indicates suspicion but not confirmation of his location. “No way out…” he mutters to himself. Eyeing the map once more, he zooms in on a few markers and shakes his head. To get a carrier, Deathscythe would have to take him across miles of desert, barren sands that would leave him completely vulnerable to attack. With the desolate levels of his ammo reserves and the blinking red warning light beside his fuel gauge, he can’t risk it. If he goes even slightly off-course in the desert, if there aren’t any suitable carriers at the airport he chooses, if the enemy finds him mid-flight…

A glinting light pings his external sensors, and he opens the camera’s view on one of his screens. A small blond boy kneels on a ledge, mirror signal in his hand, flashing for his attention. Goggles are perched on his brow, loose clothing concealing his deceptively small form. _Him… one of the other Gundam pilots._

He shakes his head, braid tangling in the folds of his shirt, and he grunts as he drags it over his shoulder. _Damn fool, signaling for all the world to see. Guess I better go see what he wants before he brings the whole damn crew down on us._ Deathscythe leaps nimbly to the shelf beside the other pilot, and the boy spins on heel to vanish into a narrow break in the cliff face. Duo eyes it nervously, bringing up an estimation on Scythe’s screens. His face creases in a wince as the Gundam squeezes through the tight crevice, emerging into a high-ceilinged cavern.

The metal door slides up, hatch falling open with the faint hiss of hydraulics. Wearily, Duo fumbles with the buckles until his harness releases. His whole body shrieks in protest as he levers himself to his feet, bruises mottling every inch of his skin. Stepping into the dimly illuminated cave, he lowers grief-darkened purple eyes to rake the room. The blond pilot stands at the foot of the double-sickled Gundam, expectant gaze trained on Deathscythe. He lifts his hands to cup around his mouth and calls up to Duo.

“We’ve got to get out of here. The enemy isn’t going to stop. Do you want to join us?”

Duo eyes the metal giant, the innocent-faced pilot, and the ranks of desert-colored suits flanking the second Gundam. Some sort of back-up force for the blond pilot. _Must be nice_ , Duo thinks bitterly. But the offer of company… to not have to be alone… a distraction from thinking about… his heart clenches. “Yeah,” he mutters, and he hears the heaviness in his own voice, “I could use some sympathy right now.”

“I need time to think too,” the other pilot responds gently.

“Buddy… you have no idea,” Duo rasps under his breath.

A thoughtful expression crosses the Arabian boy’s face as a strangely clad man bends to speak to him. “A sandstorm is coming. We’ll cross the desert then.”

 

* * *

 

 

They cross the desert. There’s not much Duo can say other than that… his brain feels foggy, the way it usually did after a night of serious tequila overdose, the way it did when he laid back on a filthy carpet, blood dripping from his veins. The difference is, there is no redeeming quality to this mist. No happy ending, no peaceful sensation, no delightful drifty darkness. Just the slow, aching throb of emptiness in his chest. His Gundam slogs through the sand, the storm a soft static across the surface of the metal. A vague irritation flits across his mind, the nagging reminder that this sand will result in hours spent crawling across the chest of the suit, scrubbing grit out of the niches and lines of Deathscythe’s armor, hours spent in the innards of the mecha with a toothbrush, ensuring that the host of delicate parts are clean.

A vast hatch opens in the midst of a dune, gaping open like a gator’s jaws to reveal a colossal tunnel into the ground. Normally he would have been leaning into his harness, examining the mechanics of the door, the structure of the hollow descent. Instead, with a silent raise of his eyebrows, he follows the line of troops down into the base.

He cuts off Deathscythe’s engines, bringing up a diagnostic tool on his screens. It hums quietly on the monitors for a moment, clicking through the various parts and systems of his suit. Caressing the glowing controls, he reluctantly releases the door and climbs out onto the swaying metal platform of the hangar. Though his body is grateful for the gentle height of the platform, removing the need for a rough zipline landing, his mind grumbles at the uncertain footing. He feels unsteady enough without the surface beneath his feet being unstable.

The boy is speaking, presumably at him as the rather large man approaching is still out of earshot. “This is a military base of the Maguanac Corps… our homeland.”

A green tinge sweeps Duo’s vision. “Your home?” _Lucky bastard_.

The man waits just outside of their conversation, attentive and patient. Duo tunes them out as they begin a friendly conversation, skin chilling with the sense of exclusion. _I’m sure he’s not doin’ it on purpose but… man, a home. He has a_ home _. What do I have? A beat-up colony fulla drugs and disease, a ragtag group of scavengers, and a…_ His fists tighten, nails pricking at his palms. The emptiness in him fills, like a bursting dam, and overflows with a heart-throbbing agony. Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, he leans against the comforting chill of his Gundam’s chest and tries to suck air into his lungs. Steel bands have snapped closed around his torso, squeezing at his heart and organs.

“We’ll repair both Gundams,” he hears the man say, through the breathless cotton padding around him.

The blond turns to him, a concerned inquiry on his face. “Okay?”

He manages to nod, pretending that the boy is asking about the troops touching his precious suit. “I appreciate it,” he murmurs, letting the huskiness in his voice be the rasp of a battle-cry riddled throat.

“Oh! I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Quatre Raberba Winner.”

Shock clears the air around Duo. _Well no wonder. We gotta billionaire over here, boys ‘n’ girls._ “You’re the heir to the Winner family. _The_ political and financial power of the Arabic Nations… no wonder ev’ryone around here looks up to ya.”

Quatre scuffs his foot on the floor, a darkness eclipsing his brilliant features. “My family is all pacifists. I disinherited myself to come to earth.”

A twinge sneaks through Duo’s bitterness. Family only in name then… _but he still has his family by choice. All of those men… they could have single-handedly cleaned up my colony._ “It takes all types I guess,” he mutters. Realizing that he sounds like a petulant child, he offers his hand and attempts a grin. “I’m Duo. Duo Maxwell. I might run and hide, but I never tell a lie!”

A shadowed smile gentles the sadness on Quatre’s face as he slips his palm against Duo’s. The braided boy winces and Quatre glances down, mouth opening in a horrified gasp at the sight of his hand. Duo tucks his hands under his arms, concealing the streaks of dried blood, the vicious splits across his knuckles, the gaping starburst wounds embedded with tiny Gundanium shards.

“…that pilot’s self-destruction really affected you, didn’t it?” Quatre inquires hesitantly.

Duo’s eyes slam shut on the tide of tears, the words ricocheting around his brain. He squeezes his elbows tight to his ribs, compressing his hands to his body until he can feel the gashes begin to leak blood. The crimson stream trickles over his fingers, winding down the muscles of his forearms until they catch Quatre’s attention.

“Duo, you’re bleeding again! We have a medical team inside, waiting on us, if you follow me.”

“That’s aw’fly nice of ya, but I gotta med kit in here,” Duo wrenches from tear-closed vocal cords. “I really just wanna go to sleep, if you’ve gotta bed I can crash on. Or couch. Or floor. I’m not picky.”

Quatre rubs at his mouth, a line appearing between his eyebrows. It’s apparent that he wants to say something, wants to insist that Duo get medical attention. A soft sigh escapes his lips and he tugs at the cuffs of his shirt. “You’re not sleeping on the floor, Duo. I will show you to your room, if that’s what you want.”

“Thanks, Quat,” Duo drones, voice flattened by exhaustion. “I just need a little bit of space.”

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes to sweat-soaked sheets, braid stuck to his chest. A vague sense of horror is rising in his gut, but he can’t quite recall why. He traces back through his memories, still foggy with the last remnants of sleep tangled around his thoughts. Contentment seeps through the wave of terror, and he takes a moment to stretch battle-stiffened limbs. Rolling onto his back, he tucks his hands behind his head and flips through the recent pages of his personal history.

He’s at the base with Quatre… Deathscythe has no permanent damage… there’s been no significant Oz sightings in the area… the last battle went well…

Gravity reverses for an instant, his stomach flipping in his abdomen. His heart slows, thudding painfully in his chest, and a sick gurgle rises out of his throat. His hands fly to his mouth, muffling the scream threatening to burst from his lips.

_Heero is dead_.

 

* * *

 

 

Dusky twilight is caressing the walls when a tapping on the door brings him to consciousness. For a second, the hair twined around his wrist feels like a familiar grip, and he reaches out to the other side of the bed. Hands seek the comforting warmth, the sleek definition of sleep-heated muscles, the velvet-over-metal sensation of his lover’s skin. When chilled silken sheets greet his grasping fingertips, a distorted moan leaks from his lips. The memories come rushing back.

_Heero is dead_.

The tapping echoes through the room, followed by the metallic rustle of the door handle being twisted. The door is locked. A voice leaks through the thick wooden portal. “Duo? It’s Quatre… I’m worried about you, Duo. Will you please come eat something?”

He curls into himself, tucking his knees into his chest and wrapping his fingers around sweat-slicked shins. He ducks his head, pressing his face to the damp skin of his thighs, and lets the world fade again.

 

* * *

 

 

He bolts upright in the bed, sheets tangled around his legs. His hair is a matted mess, slick with oil but frizzed from his thrashing nightmares. His muscles tremble with fatigue. He hasn’t had an uninterrupted hour of sleep in days. The time is an obsidian haze of blood-soaked memories. Scrabbling for food among the other orphans on L2. Solo dying in his arms, gasping his last breath through the throttling grasp of the plague. The Maxwell Church burning because he stole that mobile suit, Father Maxwell and Sister Helen screaming through the flames. Nights spent with a blade pressed to his wrists, unable to put an end to the misery. The pleading voices of soldiers begging for their lives. Heero’s disapproving sapphire gaze when he royally fucked up a mission. Heero’s lips on his skin, an accusation rather than a promise. Bruises in the shape of Heero’s hands, left in the midst of passion. Wing Gundam, lit up like a fireworks display, exploding across his screens. He can’t tell the difference between consciousness and dreams anymore.

Tears dry on his cheeks, salt trails crusted from previous horrors. He scrubs a hand across his filthy skin, rolls onto his other side, and ignores the concerned voice echoing through the chamber. “Duo… it’s been four days… you need to eat something.”

_Four days… not enough_.

He cups his hands protectively over his ears, drowning out the insistent voice, and sinks back into the darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

On the seventh day, Duo wakes to sunlight streaming feebly through the gauze curtains. The window is cracked open, enough for a faint breeze to stir the fabric, enough for a hint of fresh air to reach the fetid confines of the room. His gut is roiling with displeasure, muscles cramped from disuse. His head is stuffed full of cobwebs thanks to a week of drifting in and out of the blackest remembrance his mind has to offer. None of this compares to the agonizing crevasse in his chest.

“I can’t do this anymore, Heero.” _I’ve got your back_. “I was broken before you, I was broken in your hands, and I’m broken now.” A choked exhale stutters between his teeth. “I can deal with death. He an’ I go way back. I just can’t take the pain. It’s too much.”

He can hear Heero’s voice in his head, calm and analytical. Almost soothing in its apathy. _A chemical imbalance can be remedied with medications. Depression is a temporary and reparable condition. Suicide is an extreme and permanent response to a temporary problem._ And then, the sneering derision that Duo heard less and less as time passed between them. _Suicide is for those too weak to cling to life. For those too weak to fight._ And then, with gentleness that nearly unhinges him. _You’re stronger than that, Duo._

“You win, Heero. I give. You always said I was too weak. Diff’rence between us was, you thought I could get better.”

He slides limply off the mattress, landing in a pile on the floor. His limbs tangle around each other, weak with fatigue, dehydration, and malnutrition. Levering himself to hands and knees, he begins to crawl toward the beckoning bathroom door, pausing to hook a hand through the strap of his bag. His braid drags on the carpet beside him, weighted with filth. He’s almost ashamed of his condition.

“Father, forgive me for I have sinned. Heero, you can watch my back in hell.”

 

* * *

 

 

Quatre lingers in the hallway outside of the door that has been securely closed for the past week. Closed and locked, no one entering. More worrisome, no one exiting. He’s heard the screams, inhuman howls rocketing down the hallways in the dead of night. The missing pilot’s name screamed like a battle cry. The staff is frightened to enter the wing, fearing that their master has brought a demon in human form down on their heads.

He leans in, pressing his ear against the chilled mahogany surface, listening for signs of life. A faint, grotesque sobbing reaches his ears, punctuated by harshly sucked in gasps of air. This is nothing unusual. Duo has been crying for days, wrung dry by the devastation of losing a member of their team. Quatre’s space heart tells him that it’s more than that, that the pain is closer to a wild creature robbed of its mate than to a pack losing a wolf.

It’s why he’s respected the locked door, though he keeps the key close to hand. It’s why he hasn’t pressed the issue yet. Duo needs time to heal, needs time for the blood from the heart-vein to begin to clot. But this… a second noise reaches his ears, a faint rattle of something skittering against plastic. He racks his mind for a comparison, flinches away from the vision of his grandfather’s deathbed, of a shaking hand fumbling to pour life-saving pills into his quivering palm. _Pills. No!_

The key is in his hand before he fully processes the thought, door flung open to slam against the far wall. “Duo!” His voice, unstrung with panic, breaks against the silent walls of the suite. He turns his head, seeking the source of the grief-stricken noises, sees the light draped across the carpet from the gaping bathroom door. Nausea rises in his gut and he presses his hand to his abdomen as he pads across the room, carefully, the way he would approach a feral animal.

“Duo?”

He steps into the doorway and freezes, fighting the urge to retch. Duo is reclining in the bathtub, braid draped over the porcelain edge and onto the floor like a dull brown snake. His skin is pallid, drawn tight against his bones, eyes sunken deep into his colorless face. His hands struggle with a tightly closed orange bottle, captive pills shivering against the walls of the container. An array of full bottles lay scattered beside the tub, waiting for his attention.

Quatre flicks on the light switch, bathing the room in more than just the weak winter sun. Under the harsh glare of the fluorescents he can see exactly why Duo’s fingers can’t grip the bottle. The cap is slicked with blood, crimson streaks down the sides of the bottle. His hands are gloved from fingertip to elbow in burgundy liquid, the sides of the bath stained in swoops of red velvet drapery. A gleaming razor lies on the edge of the ivory surface, a watery red puddle spreading beneath it. And Duo.

“Oh, Duo…” His arms are opened from peak of wrist nearly to the crevice of his elbow, skin drawn away from the wound to reveal the sickening yellow of fat and the horror movie beauty of bone. The white shimmer is almost fascinating, flickering in and out of pulses of blood. Quatre drops to his knees, hitting the tile with a thud, and yanks the bottle out of Duo’s hands. The other containers scatter across the floor, rolling away from Duo’s grasping fingers, shoved by a sweep of Quatre’s hand.

A med kit is nearly hidden in the shadow of the sink, opened to reveal a stash of glittering blades, and Quatre snatches up a roll of bandage as he catches Duo’s questing arm. Ignoring a cry of protest, he swiftly packs the wound with gauze and begins winding the white fabric around the too-thin forearm, breathing a little bit easier with each disappearing inch of crimson-stained flesh. It’s only as he ties off the dressing on Duo’s other arm that he meets the desolate amethyst gaze and braces for battle.

“Duo… why?”

A grating laugh slices through the air. “Why? _Why?_ I just saw someone die, Quat. Someone who I cared about, more than I shoulda. I had a link to his ‘pit. I saw the look in his eyes when he knew he hadta push that button.”

“I know you’re hurt over this, Duo-” Another almost-hysterical chuckle. “-we all are. None of us wanted to see him die. But that’s no reason to end your own life. Where will that get us?”

“Us? This isn’t about us, Quatre. It’s not even about him. I’ve been barely a step from the edge as long as I can remember.” A frantic expression gleams in Duo’s eyes.

“So why now? Why not wait out the war, see if it gets better, see if you find a reason to keep going. There’s always a reason to stay alive, if you only look,” Quatre is grasping at straws, sensing Duo pulling away from him.

Duo glances down at his white-swathed arms, at the hands still gleaming with blood. He shakes his head. “Ya know that sign that no one understood? That last twitch of his fingers? That was our sign. The one promise we made each other. He said he’d have my back an’ he died. He let me need him, _made_ me need him, and then he left. Jus’ like that. And I am not fucking strong enough to do this. Death has taken one life too many, and I’m not waitin’ for him to take mine. He can have it. I’m done.”

Quatre swallows around the lump in his throat and gently grasps Duo’s fingers. “You’ve got to hold on, Duo. We’ve got your back too. Trowa, Wufei, myself… you’re not alone. We’re here for you. But you have to stay with us.”

“Don’t ask me to do this, Quatre. Please. Just let me go… ev’ryone else has.”

“We need you, Duo,” Quatre murmurs quietly.

He’s startled by Duo’s fervent response, violet eyes wide, tears tracking through the dirt on his face. “ _And I need him._ He was my plan B, my back-up, the one thing that hurt me enough that I didn’t have to hurt myself. And now he hurts too much. It’s just too much fucking pain to handle. My first choice was always death.”

“Don’t let his sacrifice go to waste, Duo. We’ll lose the war without you, and his death will have meant nothing.” Duo sucks in a startled breath, pressing a hand to his stomach as if he’s been sucker-punched by Quatre’s words. “I know it hurts, Duo. I’ve been there. Let his memory be your motivation. Let your pain serve a purpose. If we give up now, we’re telling Oz that they have defeated all of us by defeating one of us.”

Duo’s chin tucks into his collarbones, defeat written in the lines of his face. His eyes dart longingly to the burgundy shimmer of the razor before Quatre sweeps it off the tub and into the nearby trashcan. “And let me guess,” he rasps, voice shattered from the nights of screaming himself awake, “I’m on suicide watch until you can trust me again.”

Quatre shrugs, packing up the med kit. The unused razors clink into the trash beside the bloodied blade, and Duo twitches at the noise. “I’m sorry, Duo. You are not going to die today.”

 

* * *

 

 

Duo stares down at the snaking wounds in his forearms, flexing his wrists to watch the skin ripple. Pain follows the movements in pacifying little waves, swells and surges that settle him, that soothe the rabid emptiness inside of him. Shadows edge his vision, the temptation to finish what he started. A rustle at the door reminds him that he has company, a constant companion. They’d even insisted on standing outside the door as he showered, struggling through the masses of his hair with both gashes reopening with each movement.

He glances up as Quatre appears in the doorway, hastily tucking in the tails of his button-down shirt, tugging a vest over his slender shoulders. The goggles that he always seems to be wearing in battle are perched on his brow, and a furrow mars the delicacy of his features.

“Duo, we have a problem.”

Duo raises his eyebrows in answer, beginning to wrap his forearm in a length of bandaging. The pressure intensifies the sting and his eyelids drift half-closed, blood singing with the haze of red that screens his sight. “Mm?” He inquires sleepily, floating on the knife-edged currents.

“Reconnaissance troops from Oz have been spotted in town. Oz mobile suit troops are surrounding the area and preparing to move in.”

Duo snaps to attention, swiftly finishing the gauze protection and tucking the edges in securely. “We can’t fight here. The civilians will get involved, and ordinary people don’t have an ice cube’s chance in hell against those Oz fuckers.”

He launches himself to his feet, snatching the jacket draped over the end of the bed. Yanking it over his shoulders, he nods his readiness to Quatre. They’ve just reached the main corridor, scattering servants from the hallways. Quatre may be well-respected, less imposing with the innocence of his features, and though his expression is stern and determined, he’s still the master that they know and love. Duo is the wild-card, the self-proclaimed Shinigami, and he draws gloom around him like a cloak as he stalks down the passageway, violet eyes darkening until the pupils vanish into their shadow.

Rashid stops their progress, the massive man almost frantic as he staggers into the front room. “Master Quatre!” he gasps as he slides to an abrupt halt.

“Rashid, what’s happening?”

“Those damn Oz soldiers that we thought were scouts? They left behind almost two dozen boxes of explosives!”

Quatre’s face goes white. Duo reaches out as he sways on his feet, placing a hand on his shoulder to steady him. “Easy, Quat,” he murmurs, then lifts his voice to Rashid. “If they’re timed, we can just trash ‘em and take out the Oz motherfuckers while they’re waitin’ for us to die.”

Rashid shakes his head. “I’m not sure we can move them. They seem to be pressure sensitive.”

“Fuck. They’re gonna force us out like rats in a burning house. How long?” Duo starts running calculations in his head, trying to remember the topography and the surrounding landscaping.

“They’re set to go off at midnight.”

Quatre finally recovers enough to speak up. “They must be hoping to corner us into a night battle. Either that or they expect us to surrender in order to protect the citizens.”

“The Gundams must be causing this,” Duo comments quietly, a slow tide of rage building in his gut. More deaths on his hands.

 

* * *

 

 

Duo stands by Quatre’s side in the back of the hangar, lines of troops arrayed in front of them. Rashid is delivering a rousing speech, designed to inspire these men to surrender their lives in the defense of the people. He crosses his arms across his chest, struggling to control his expression. _This is utter bullshit. Oz doesn’t give a fuck who they kill, as long as they kill us too. These are innocent people! I’m so fucking tired of putting other people in danger just by existing. Fuck. Quat shoulda let me go. God damnit._

“And one other honorable duty remains,” Rashid is saying. “We must help the two Gundams to escape.”

“What?!” Duo hisses. The back row of soldiers turns to examine him at his exclamation, offering respectful nods to the two pilots.

“The Gundams are true heroes from the colonies who are committed to destroying Oz. They can’t join tonight’s battle, but one day they will return and liberate us all!” The crowd roars in approval.

Duo jabs Quatre in the ribs with his elbow. “Quatre, what’s going on? We’re going to turn tail and run like a pair of scared puppies? That is not fucking kosher with me.”

“Duo, if we stay Oz will not hesitate to destroy the town. We need to draw their fire away so that the citizens have time to safely retreat. I know you don’t like it, but I will not endanger my people,” Quatre responds calmly, eyes trained on the people lined up to fight in his name.

“…fuck.”

 

* * *

 

 

Deathscythe and Quatre’s Sandrock are safely tucked away in their carriers, and Quatre is saying his goodbye. He passes through the troops, pausing to shake hands or embrace his soldiers. He thanks each one of them by name, adding wishes for their safety. He asks about their families, ensuring that the retreat is going as planned. Duo sighs softly, glancing at Rashid.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, swallowing his pride. “You did all of this for me and I can’t do nothin’ for you…”

“The Gundams are our heroes,” Rashid responds quietly, a smile gentling his face as a girl drapes a wreath of flowers about Duo’s neck. “Never forget that.”

Duo scuffs his foot against the floor, restlessness making him twitchy. “I know. But I should be fighting, should be doin’ something to help.”

“This isn’t your battle, Duo. Don’t shame us by telling us that we are not able to do our duty.”

Stung, Duo lifts his gaze to Rashid’s stern face. He tilts his head, acknowledging the reprimand, and holds out his hand in apology. Rashid wraps his fingers around Duo’s, his massive digits swallowing the braided boy’s hand. Duo raises his free hand, caresses the blossoms resting bright against the solemnity of his jacket. “I swear on these flowers, I will come back and fight for you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Duo stares out the window of the carrier, watching the Maguanac Corps scatter across the desert. Oz troops scramble across the sand like so many beetles, a malignant black tide of misery. Death spreads its mantle across enemy and friend alive, Maguanac suits measuring their length beside smoking Oz corpses. He clenches his hands into fists. _Twice as much blood on my hands… Quatre’s people are down there, killing the enemy for my sake. How many more innocent people need to die in my name? Fuck, Quat, why didn’t you just leave me alone?_

“Hey Quatre?”

“Yes?”

“Could you circle the battle one more time? I can’t help them now, even though they’re dying for me… but I wanna do something.”

“Sure thing, Duo.”

He paces through the carrier, measured tread taking him back to Deathscythe. His hands tremble as the black armor rises in front of him. Heero’s voice echoing through his cockpit, Heero’s face on his screen, the weary resignation on his face as J finished speaking, the solemn acceptance in his voice as he intoned ‘mission accepted’… by the time Duo settles into the cockpit, his body is shaking like a leaf in high wind, swamped by memories.

He opens a link to Quatre. “Open ‘em up, Quat.”

The belly of the plane splits open and Duo marches Deathscythe to the edge, a redeeming angel bursting from the gut of the carrier. Bracing himself on the very precipice of the hatch, he levels his weapon at the Oz troops and opens fire. _If their deaths must weigh heavy on anyone’s soul, let me bear the burden._ The mobile suits explode into dust, popping and spitting beneath the spray of his bullets like oil on a molten surface. Faint words of praise pepper his speakers, Quatre’s troops cheering him on.

Rashid’s voice floats over him, steady and strong, with an admiring tone in his voice. “Mission complete. Oz forces neutralized. Maguanac Corps, retreat!”

“Quatre, did your people get out okay?” he calls to the carrier’s pilot.

“Every single one of them, Duo. No casualties. This time, this one shining moment, everybody lives.”

_And that_ , Duo muses triumphantly, a faint shine breaking through the black crust around his heart, _is enough of a reason to live. For now._


	12. In Love, But Not at Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heero is struggling for some semblance of control, shattering under the strain of so many impossible expectations. Duo is breaking beneath the weight of all of the sins he bears, unable to cope with all of the blood guilt on his soul. They both are desperate to find an outlet for their living nightmares. Redemption is a whipping post, a hair shirt, a long line of flagellants waiting to be punished. Redemption can only be achieved through pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Sexual encounter, non-consensual drug usage
> 
> a/n: I couldn't find a good place to split this, so here's a 6200 word chapter. Sorry!

So Duo runs. He does what he does best and flees from Quatre’s overprotective watch, holing himself up in the slums of some worn-down city, far away from military bases and war hounds, lost in the swarms of humanity crowding the filthy streets. Rents a shitty apartment, a one room closet with barely enough room for a bed, a ship-sized kitchen, and a bathroom where you could piss and shower at the same time. Turns nocturnal, going out at night to drink himself into a stupor, stumbling home to crash into his flea-ridden mattress. Sleeps until the artificial colony lights fade and slinks out to another bar where the bartender knows his name.

His fake name at least. Max Zerwing, a guarantee that he’ll respond by rote to at least the first half of his new moniker. He’s tired of this shit. The running, the hiding. The pain in his chest like a childhood invisible friend. Childhood nightmare, more like, but a constant presence regardless. He’s so goddamn tired, but all he can do is drink until the world goes fuzzy and numb, until the grief recedes like a vicious dog called back to its handler.

He’s slumped over yet another bar tonight, the scratched and battered wood sticky with the residue of cheap beer and moonshine. His glass is cupped protectively in his hands, a tumbler of amber something spinning slowly between his palms. He lifts the cup to his lips, swallowing the liquor, and it burns down his throat in a bitter flow. He shudders at the harsh flavor, drags the back of his hand across his mouth. The edges of the room are fluffed out and drifting softly, a sure sign that the emptiness in his chest will soon be filled with apathy.

A vague mumbling catches his ears, paired with the slow tread of footsteps. He spins lazily on his barstool, throwing back the rest of his drink. He slides the glass across the bar to the man behind it and twitches bleary eyes to the group of drunks approaching him. They’re not much to look at, clothing dirty and tattered, oil-stained denim and patched shirts. They’re also laughing, beer gutted or heroin-thin, with the sneers on their faces that generally indicate trouble for a slender, braided boy like himself.

“Hey there, pretty boy,” one drawls, nudging the man next to him.

They all chuckle as Duo narrows his eyes, the room sharpening in his focus as the kick of adrenaline forces sobriety into his veins. “I’m really not in the mood,” he warns quietly.

Another wave of laughter, and a second man speaks. “I’m sure we could put you in the mood. Whadda ya say?”

“Fuck off,” he snarls, a wave of nausea eclipsing the pleasant tide of drunkenness. He half-pivots back to the bar, not daring to fully turn his back on the group, and snatches up the new drink.

A hand lands on his shoulder and he jerks away from it, but the grip tightens down. He casually drains the glass, tipping his head until he can see the stringy-haired asshole who summoned up the balls to lay hands on him. “Get the fuck off me,” he murmurs, too calmly.

The ice in his eyes, a glazed purple haze, almost makes the man step away. His friends slur some obscenity that gives him courage, and he tugs Duo’s shoulder until they’re face to face. Standing over Duo, he gives the long-haired boy a smug grin. And then Duo smiles back. It’s a haunting, inhuman grin, lips stretched unnaturally wide, the rictus of death eclipsing his face. The man stumbles back, attempting a retreat as he realizes his grave calculation, but Duo’s fingers are locked over his in a mocking caress.

“You’re right,” he croons, a sleepy arctic glaze hooding his eyes. “You did put me in the mood.”

His arm swings around, blindingly fast, and shatters the tumbler against the side of the man’s face. Glass spikes into the stranger’s cheek, gouging the fragile skin, trails of blood beginning to stream down his jaw. Duo shakes the crystals of glass from his hand, casually reaching out with his other hand to snatch the shivering man by his throat. His fingers dig in, hooking behind the windpipe, and begin to burrow toward each other. His would-be attacker makes a gagging sound, scrabbling with battered fingers at his insanely strong grip. The remainder of the group gazes at him in horror as he begins to laugh, low and lethal, maniacal giggles echoing off of the rafters.

“Hi there, pretty boy,” he purrs, and his nails dig in until blood leaks from a dozen puncture marks.

He tosses the man to the floor, where he slides into the corner with a sickening crunch. The man curls into a quivering heap, sobs racking his broken body, hands tucked over his head in a futile attempt at protecting himself. Duo rests his eyes on the cowering men in front of him, Shinigami shining out of his purple orbs. The men raise their hands in surrender, shaking like leaves in a high storm. The amusement drains out of his face, leaving it deadly and furious and so, so cold.

“The next time you pricks, try ta play with someone, remember this. I’m the God of Death, I will know, and I will fucking destroy you.”

* * *

 

The misty place is blissful, a sweet fog of oblivion wrapping his inert form. Nothing stirs him, no one pesters him. No orders, no murder, no pain. He hears the people padding around the edges, a vaguely familiar male voice and an unfamiliar, grating female voice. When the female is around he sinks deeper, letting the cotton swath his ears until silence envelops him like a blanket. When the male is around, he drifts… closer to consciousness, basking in the warmth of a human presence. This companion is quiet and still, occasionally murmuring an update on the other pilots. One name is missing, the one reason he drifts so near to awareness, on the borderline of mindfulness and agony.

In a rare display of impatience, he catalogs his injuries, deems himself capable of survival, and forces himself to surface. His eyelids flicker, heavy as Gundanium plates. Blurry vision greets him, a fuzzy glimpse of a nondescript room. Some sort of… metal walls. Where is he? Why isn’t he dead? A rustle of movement. His head twitches to follow it, straining coma-gunked eyes to capture the person’s details.

“Oh! You’re awake!” The female. He winces, lets his eyes slide closed for a moment. Darkness. So tempting. “Wait here, I’ll go get Trowa!”

As if he has any choice but to wait. His body has informed him in no uncertain terms that movement is quite impossible at the moment. Malnutrition, a host of broken bones, muscle tears, and strained tendons. He’ll recover, J made sure of that, but not immediately. _Who is Trowa?_

Footsteps in the hallway. He pries his eyes open, struggles to lift his head. It weighs far more than it used to… how long has he been out? The muscle deterioration is alarming. A boy steps into the room, hair sweeping over his face to cover one eye. Heero tenses, uncomfortable with the inability to meet both of this stranger’s eyes. The other boy doesn’t speak, merely props himself on the arm of a nearby chair and folds his arms.

“Where…” His voice comes out strained, raspy. He swallows, clears his throat in a gesture that he’s always found abhorrent, and tries again. “Where am I?”

“With a travelling circus. I’ve been here for a while.”

Heero’s sight clears enough for his eyes to verify the stranger’s story. It doesn’t match up. The boy is dressed plainly enough, nothing like the fanciful costumes that he imagines circus performers must wear. Unless he isn’t a performer… irrelevant. “Why did you save my life? I had to die there,” Heero says quietly, forcing himself upright in the bed.

A mysterious quirk tilts Trowa’s lips. “You died a long time ago, Heero.”

Heero’s eyes widen, then narrow in confusion. Is he dead? Is this some sort of afterlife hallucination? Or is he making some sort of reference to the politician whose name he stole? The hint of amusement fades from the boy’s face.

“The forces retaliating against Oz have ignored our advice to seek peace. They are causing unnecessary carnage worldwide. And,” A streak of bitterness laces his words, “despite their threats, Oz hasn’t touched the colonies. They seem focused on overtaking the remainder of the earth nations. It’s been a month.”

He sucks in a breath, pressing a hand to his bandaged ribs as pain rockets through him. “I’ve been unconscious for a month?”

Trowa nods, a minute dip of his head. All of his gestures are quiet, understated. Subtle. He’s the kind of man that Heero appreciates, one who doesn’t engage in grand gestures or vapid pleas for attention. “In Oz’s eyes, you’re already dead. And you’re no longer restrained to the colonies. No one is aware that you exist, outside of this circus. And even then, it’s only Catherine, the ringmaster, and I.” A shadow darkens his face. “I wish that were the case for me.”

“Did they find you while searching for me?” Heero inquires softly, almost afraid of the answer.

“No. In fact, none of us have received orders since Oz threatened the colonies. I’m not sure what to do. What if Oz tries to use the colonies as a shield again?” He pauses, casts his visible eye over Heero’s battered and bandaged body. “Should I be following your example?”

Heero nearly rolls his eyes. Pointless heroics. He’d have blown up the Gundam from the outside if he’d been aware that detonation was necessary. “Let me tell you one thing, if you’re considering that,” he comments drily. Trowa raises an eyebrow, and he continues. “It hurts like hell.”

Trowa burst out laughing, happiness lightening his features, highlighting just how young he is. Just how young they all are. _We’re child soldiers. We may have been born to it but that doesn’t make it any less sick that teenagers are fighting and dying for a cause that’s uncertain_. Heero chuckles carefully, his torso protesting the motion, the laughter too contagious to resist.

“May I ask a favor?” Heero inquires, when their smiles have faded from war-weary faces.

Trowa nods and Heero inhales cautiously, needing the steadiness of a deep breath. “What happened to the other pilots?”

“Quatre is with the Maguanac Corps. Troops loyal to him. Their base in the desert was discovered and bombed, but they were able to evacuate. The dragon pilot, from what I’ve dug up in hacked Oz reports, is involved with rebel troops. They can’t find his Gundam.”

Heero swallows, hard, noting the empty space in the sentence. He wraps a stranglehold around his voice to keep it steady. “What of the other? 02?”

Trowa levels a knowing glance at him, hearing the dissonant quiver in his words. His face is gentle as he responds. “Missing. He was with Quatre for a brief period of time, during which he was… not well. He vanished after the evacuation and we have lost all contact with him since.”

“Unwell.” Heero’s lips are numb, the word flat and emotionless.

“I’m not sure you want to-“ Trowa begins, compassion in the lines of his lean face.

“Tell me,” Heero insists.

Trowa unfolds his lanky body from the chair, turns away from Heero’s bed. His voice sounds like footsteps across glass. “Quatre reported the incident around three weeks ago. 02 would have ingested a lethal overdose of pills if he’d been able to open the bottle. He couldn’t get a grip on the cap because he slit his wrists first.”

Bile rises in Heero’s throat, slippery and acidic. He scrabbles for the garbage can, leaning painfully over the bed to empty the meager contents of his stomach into the trash. Acid, mostly, and what might be broth. He retches again, his insides convulsing, but there’s nothing left to come up. A glass of water appears next to him, cupped in Trowa’s hand. Forcing himself upright, he wraps an arm around his protesting ribs and takes a sip of water. It scrapes down his abraded throat and he winces, placing the cup on a nearby table.

“I’m sorry,” Trowa murmurs.

Heero meets his one visible eye, and the empathy written in the other boy’s face nearly unhinges him. He shakes his head, abruptly halting the motion as his spine screams in protest. A grunt escapes his lips. Trowa’s hand falls gently on his shoulder, slow pressure laying him back down on the mattress. He sinks into the surface with a soft sigh, and he has to admit… as much as his brain is urging him to move, to run, to feel the rumble of his Gundam beneath his skin… it is pretty damn nice to let himself drift back to sleep. 

* * *

 

Duo scrapes the blood off his nose, leaving a brilliant crimson streak across his knuckles. He palms the brass plate protecting the back of his hand and shoves it into his pocket, resuming his unassuming stroll down the street. He has more than his fair share of unfortunate encounters, being that he’s young and undersized. The yard-long tail of hair doesn’t help his case much, either – seems to peg him as an easy target.

This assailant had been trolling for an easy lay, had mistaken him for one of the many prostitutes. The man didn’t respect his polite and not-so-polite verbal refusals. It always went the same way. He would tell them he wasn’t interested, he would tell them to fuck off, and then he would tell them with his fists. He has a nastily quick punch, a lethally powerful hook, and he has taken to carrying a pair of knuckle plates to back up the lean muscle on his body.

It isn’t a good way to live – he’ll give ya that one. He hardly sleeps anymore, collapsing onto a lumpy excuse for a bed and tossing and turning for hours, haunted by Prussian blue eyes, until he finally gives up and drags himself out of bed. The battered fridge in the apartment is empty except for a collection of abhorrently cheap liquor. The best cure for a hangover is to never stop drinking, or so he tells himself as he greets the evening with a shot of what is probably actually rubbing alcohol. Who knows what they actually make alcohol out of in the slums of this shitty, rundown city.

He tips the bottle in a sarcastic salute to himself and wraps his lips around the mouth of the bottle, sloshing a measure of the liquid down his throat. Thumping the bottle onto the counter, he shudders as the abrasive heat skids into his gut. It’s about that time again. Every once in a while, the loneliness and the nightmares force him out of his self-imposed solitude, drive him into the arms of a stranger. He refuses to prostitute himself, preferring to live off of stolen Oz funds. It’s bad enough that he’ll go home with a man whose name he doesn’t know, slinking back to his solemn apartment as dawn appears on the horizon.

He grazes a thumb over one of his ropy scars, the livid red line splitting his forearm in half. He hasn’t dared take a knife to himself since that night, not trusting that he won’t just obliterate the last shreds of his veins. He’s chosen to live as a functioning alcoholic with an alarmingly high number of sexual partners rather than have to imagine Quatre’s disappointed face in his last moments.

_Maybe I can forget, for once._

Maybe he can forget that, with every brush of hands over his skin, there are no familiar calluses across pads of fingers and bridge of palms. Maybe he can forget that, as his fingers crawl across a beautifully muscled chest, there’s no familiar webwork of scars to greet his caress. Maybe he can just forget, for one goddamn moment, that the man he loves is dead, and not once did he get to stare into those stunning blue eyes and gather up the balls to say the ‘L’ word.

* * *

 

He doesn’t even make it into the bar before someone finds him. He’s leaning against the rough brick façade of the building, one booted foot propped on the wall behind him, the sharp edges of the brick poking through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. A cigarette dangles from his lips, the heady rush of nicotine threading through his veins. He inhales, flicking the cig between slender fingers, reveling in the steady burn of smoke into his lungs. His braid trails over his shoulder, opposite the side of his smoking hand. It wouldn’t do to have his prized possession go up in flames… especially not since it happens to be attached to his person.

He’s stubbing the butt against the heel of his boot when the man approaches him. Duo slips a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket, pushing the lighter aside to tap his nails against the chill metal of his knuckle plate. Just in case. The stranger steps just far enough into his space to indicate more-than-friendly interest, and Duo shifts mindsets from fighting to fucking.

A hand is extended. “Nick.”

He slips his palm against the man’s, testing the strength of his grip. Feels the scuff of calluses, not mobile suit but at least manual labor, against his palm. “Max.”

“You lookin’ for company?”

Duo flicks a gaze over him. Battered work boots, worn-out jeans, a plaid button-down with the top flipped open. Sleeves rolled up to display muscular forearms covered in tattoos. Broad shoulders, a hint of scruff across his jawline that Duo finds intensely attractive, brown eyes lit with interest. His heart hitches at the messy hair flopped over his forehead, but he clamps down on the hollowness in his chest and offers Nick a cheeky grin.

“Buy me some tequila, sugar, an’ I’ll see if we can work somethin’ out.”

Six shots later, the bar is pleasantly fuzzy and Nick looks just enough like Heero for Duo’s libido to respond. The man leans in, the sharp scent of lime on his breath, but Duo places a finger over his lips and quirks a charming smile instead.

“Nuh uh, handsome. Kissing is for lovers an’ we’re just fucking… or we will be, soon.”

“Let’s go then,” the other man growls against his ear, and he shivers as the words tickle the sensitive skin. 

* * *

 Heero glances up as footsteps approach his room, raising his eyebrows in greeting as Trowa enters. The other pilot folds himself gracefully onto the edge of the bed, sitting unobtrusively beside him. He taps a few commands into his laptop, rapidly flicking through screens and search menus. Nothing.

No sightings of Deathscythe, which isn’t particularly surprising. With the hyperjammers installed in the reaper Gundam, it would be nearly impossible to find it if Duo didn’t want it to be found. There’s no sign of Duo, either. None of his aliases have popped up, none of the half-dozen accounts filled with stolen Oz funds have been touched. He’s not in any of the safehouses, and Heero doesn’t dare ask J if Duo’s mentor has heard from him.

“No luck?” Trowa inquires.

Heero shakes his head in negation, a surge of fear clenching around his chest. What if he succeeded? What if he left Quatre right when he needed support? Heero knows the statistics. Someone who has tried to commit suicide and failed is at an extremely high risk for attempting a second time. His eyes catch on the darkness outside the window, at the faintly glimmering stars. A lion roars from the animal cages, answered by the impatient snarl of what sounds like a tiger. _Where are you, Duo? I need to know that you’re okay. Fuck. I hope you’re okay._  

* * *

 Duo laces his fingers through the man’s rough hair, fervently wishing that he could stop his brain from pointing out the difference in technique between this stranger and the lover whose memories still rock his world. It is pleasurable enough, he supposes, and fuck, he’s certainly not complaining about a pair of skilled lips wrapped around his aching dick. Yet every once in a while, his mind pops up and mentions that it felt infinitely better when Heero did it.

_Of fucking course it did. That guy was a goddamn superhero in bed. Fuck._

He can’t decide whether it is shameful or awesome how he hardens further at the orgasm-summoning reminiscence of Heero’s hands on his skin. This is how it always is. He picks a guy up looking for a little peace and quiet and ends up spending the whole time thinking about his dead lover. Sure, he always gets off… but it’s like a threesome with a ghost. The encounters get more distasteful every time.  He squirms a little bit as his toes begin to tingle, as the edges of his vision go white with static. Now is about the time where he’d be yanking Heero up by his hair, latching their lips together in a breathless haze. Now is about the time where he’d be begging with short little panting gasps, desperate for the blinding pleasure-pain of Heero pinning him to the bed and oh-so-slowing pushing into him.

This is just a one-night-stand, though, and he’s not about to whip out the “I want to come with you fucking me” line. Instead, he tugs eagerly at the hair between his fingers, his back arching as his eyes clench shut. He attempts to mutter a warning before his world goes black, sparks exploding in his vision, knuckles white with his grip. A muffled grunt is the only noise that escapes him as he bites down on the knuckles of his other hand.

Nick sits up, a satisfied grin on his face, and he swipes a hand across the back of his lips. He shifts himself off the bed, ambling into another room. Duo lies limply on the bed, post-orgasmic haze temporarily flattening him. He can hear the other man rustling around, opening cabinets and fumbling with plastic. Duo lifts his head from the bed as Nick returns, a tube of lube and a foil packet clenched in his fist.

Duo finds a sick sort of amusement in the fact that he actually misses the sharp pain of Heero’s lack of lubrication. Either through lack of education or impatience, Heero never much cared for prep work… and now that he’s gone, Duo would do anything for the harsh tang of blood in the air, for the agonizing morning after. For the love notes written in flesh with teeth and nails. Heero would disappear for weeks, months, but at least for a little while Duo would have evidence that he’d been there.

So he writhes impatiently and a little uncomfortably under Nick’s gentle ministrations, finally yanks himself upright to roll the condom over the other man’s shaft. The man chuckles quietly, believing that his motions are a lack of control, a desperate need for him. _Whatever_ , Duo thinks bitterly, _let him think what he wants. Arrogant fuck_. Another issue. Duo is all for one-night-stands, since he apparently can’t manage to have a successful relationship without his lover committing suicide, but he has such absolute contempt for the men who take him to their beds. If the option wasn’t get fucked until it hurts or kill himself, he wouldn’t even be considering these idiots.

The man slides into him with a grotesque hiss of pleasure, breathing heavily into his ear. Duo abhors the intimacy of face-to-face encounters, but any position that leaves him vulnerable would be a distinctly negative experience for his partner. Considering that he keeps his knife within reach and everything. Nick wraps thick fingers around his wrists, pins them up against the headboard. Duo rolls his eyes, grateful that the other man’s head is buried in his shoulder so that he can make whatever faces he damn well pleases. As if the stranger had a snowball’s chance in hell of holding him down.

The slow burn from his body relaxes him, and he finds himself sinking into the mattress beneath the weight of the larger man. Nick’s skin gleams with sweat, his muscles flexing as he leisurely thrusts into Duo. Despite his inner monologue of dislike, Duo runs an appreciative eye down the man’s body. His heart might be torn up over a certain blue-eyed soldier, but his libido is plenty engaged with the athletic, alive male in bed with him. Combined with the sedative effect of the pain lancing through him, Duo is edging closer to the only bliss he has access to lately.

That’s when a sharp prick arrows through the flesh of his inner elbow, and he rockets off of the bed. He tosses Nick away from him, as easily as flinging a child’s toy, and glares at the syringe dangling from his skin. The man shies away as Duo turns on him, violet eyes dark with fury.

“What the _fuck_ is that?” he snarls.

Nick holds up his hands, skittering away from Duo. For the first time, Duo notices the unhealthy sheen across the man’s forehead, the twitch of his fingers. His pupils are blown open, a heady flush on his cheeks that didn’t come from the sex. “It’s just something to help you relax, have a little fun. Calm down!”

Duo snarls at him. Bares his teeth, civility stripped from his face, and snarls. The man leaps back again, until he is pressed against the wall. He cowers close to the floor, protecting his head with his quivering hands. “I. Don’t. Calm down,” Duo bites out.

He yanks on his pants, sweat breaking out on his pallid skin. His temperature is skyrocketing, body reacting to the substance at an alarming rate. The lights coming in from the street lamps already stab into his eyes like pinpricks, and he’s certain that a mirror would reveal the same wide-spread pupils. He clenches his hands into fists to still their insistent shiver, tugging his shirt over his head. Shoving his feet into his boots, he snatches the syringe off of the floor, snaps the needle off with an impatient wrench of his hand, and pockets it. If he has a bad reaction to the drug, he’ll need the traces remaining in the vial to identify it.

“You’d better fuckin’ pray to whatever gods you believe in that nothin’ happens to me. ‘Cause if it does, you’re fucking goin’ with me.” 

* * *

 

Heero limps out of the room as explosions rock the trailer. A woman screams, high-pitched and terrified. His face is impassive, expressionless, as he gazes over the scene. Oz troops ring the circus and the camp area where the performers live, buzzing like a kicked hive of wasps. Leaning against the doorframe, he cradles his ribs carefully, supporting his injured arm against the metal.

A massive metal shape rises above the bright fabric of the circus tents, and Heero breathes an envious sigh. Trowa’s flame-colored Gundam doesn’t hold a candle to his own brilliant mecha, but he has to admit that it’s a stunning machine. And Wing is dead now, nothing more than a husk of Gundanium parts abandoned in the desert.

A twinge of sadness flutters through him, soft as the graze of misty curtains. He misses Wing. Misses the thrill of adrenaline, the crushing pressure of G forces as the mobile suit spins agilely through the atmosphere. Trowa’s Gundam lumbers forward, massive body turning double barrels on the emerging Oz tanks. Heero hears the whine of Aries engines in the distance, the steps shaking beneath his feet with the stomp of approaching Leos. Oz responds to quickly to Gundam sightings. They’re desperate to get their war-mongering paws on one of the legendary machines, to tear it apart and analyze it, to mass-produce hundreds of the nearly indestructible weapons.

No one would be able to stand against Oz, if they had an army of Gundam suits. Not even the five Gundam pilots. Four, he supposes, since Wing is destroyed. He hasn’t spoken to J since he has edged out of the coma. He isn’t entirely certain that he even wants to re-enter the war. Of course he misses piloting. Misses it with a fierceness that seared his heart. But contacting J means surrendering what little control remained to him – Trowa was right, he is free. Until he lets someone know that he still lives, he is free.

And yet, maybe there were only three pilots. Duo continues to evade his careful searching, though he spends any spare moment combing through every ounce of public footage, every security camera, every internet connection. He knows Duo’s signature, could recognize his programming in an instant. Duo isn’t hacking military databases, isn’t reprogramming Scythe’s systems. He isn’t even with the Sweepers, though Howard has served as his bomb-shelter in the past. If Duo is … if Duo is no longer piloting, Quatre, Trowa, and the other would need him. Five Gundams struggled with the mass of missions and Oz attacks. Three would be slaughtered. Especially with Oz getting progressively better organized. They seemed to be finding the Gundams faster, engaging them more effectively… they’d already forced his hand, caused the destruction of his Wing. It was only a matter of time before the worst happened.

Oz troops surround Trowa, leveling weapons at the Gundanium figure. The machine guns whir, clicking through their chambers. The massive chest opens, revealing another set of guns. Those barrels stir, spinning rapidly, failing to produce any further ammo. Heero frowns slightly. Heavyarms, Trowa’s Gundam, has one significant flaw – its primary firepower comes from the guns mounted on its body. When his ammo is exhausted, he is helpless aside from the thermal blade tucked into the forearm of the mecha.

A familiar siren begins to sound, clarion howl ringing through the fairgrounds. Heavyarms begins to flash, lit from within like a terrifying lamp fixture. Heero’s chest tightens. Is this what the other pilots felt, when they watched him press that button? Like they were being held captive at a public execution? His hand rises without his conscious permission to cover his mouth, shoulder protesting the motion. He hardly notices the twinge from his injuries as his muscles tense in anticipation of the explosion. He wonders absently if the other performers will be okay, if the animals trapped helplessly in their cages will survive.

A shriek of alarm rises above the clangor, though Heero can’t hear the words. A female voice, raised in terror. Did the Oz troops capture one of the performers? Are they holding captives in the hope that Trowa will choose protecting the innocents against completing the mission? He leaps off the steps, body powering into a sprint. Muscles scream, stretching into the run, bones creaking alarmingly as his feet fly across the ground. He skids to a stop at the foot of the Gundam, puzzled by the unexpected scene. The red-haired woman is shouting at Trowa, hands planted on her hips. She spins to face him, tears streaming down her face, delicate features contorted in fury.

“You!” she cries, her voice hoarse with tears. “You’re the one who brainwashed my Trowa with your strange ideas!”

Heero backs away, holding his hands up defensively. She’s distracted as Trowa descends on a jumpline, his lean body coming gracefully into contact with the ground. She leaps into his arms, pressing herself against his muscular chest as her body shakes violently with sobs. Trowa meets his eyes over her profusion of crimson curls. Shame lingers in his hazel eyes.

“Her tears stopped me,” Trowa muses quietly, almost to himself. “If it were you, you would still have chosen death. For that, I admire your strength.”

Heero shakes his head. “No. There is nothing wrong with acting on your emotions. At least that’s what I have learned.”

A speculative gleam breaks through the guilt on Trowa’s face. “And who taught you that?”

Heero’s face shutters at the unwelcome reminder, his shoulders stiffening. The soldier drapes itself over him like a second skin, straightening his spine, tinting his eyes with an unwelcome glare. A vague hint of disappointment registers in Trowa’s one visible eye as Heero turns on heel to stalk back to the trailer.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Duo staggers into his apartment building, his vision is doubling and tripling in turns. He’s amazed that the police didn’t cite him for public drunkenness, and he’s even more amazed that some asshole didn’t try to take advantage of his clearly unstable state. He staggers against the wall, gazing up the flight of stairs, watching the walls ripple in his vision, the bannister squirm and twist like a captured snake.

Eyeing his feet, he picks one up and carefully places it on the first step. And he continues like that, step by wavering step, leaning heavily against the splintered support of the rail. His stomach roils, reminding him that a potentially toxic substance is leeching through his veins at an alarming rate. It seems like years before he slumps against the door to his tiny place, fumbling with the keys, forcing his eyes to focus long enough for him to stab at the keyhole. The door finally swings open, leaving him to list violently into the common area. He falls to his knees, shredding skin as he meets the carpet, unable to catch himself. He has the presence of mind to toe the door closed, the mental capacity to haul himself up by the doorknob to flick the locks into place.

Blackness claims him.

He wakes, unsure of the time, moonlight flooding the room. His body is drenched in sweat, hair clinging to his face in damp tendrils. His hands are shaking uncontrollably, concerning little tremors echoing throughout his entire body. Heero’s name swims across his consciousness, followed by a fierce pang of desire. Heero would fix this, if he was here. Anger clouds the fog surrounding him. There wouldn’t have been anything for Heero to fix, if he’d been here.

A faint light catches his eyes – his laptop, laid open on the crate that serves as a table. He crawls over to it, unable to batter his drugged muscles to a standing position. A blinking light greets him, the red blip perpetually flickering at the corner of his screen. His fingers reach out, trace the crimson glow lovingly. It’s the connection with Heero’s computer, hooked into his laptop and his Gundam. Duo hasn’t managed to sever it, hasn’t bothered to question why it is still intact.

His vision begins to fade, grey eclipsing the shine of the stars, a solemn darkness sweeping over that. Hands cling desperately to the edges of the laptop, delirium twisting over his awareness. As he loses his final grasp on sanity, the ruby blink bleeds through his eyelids, catching every rambling mumble of his lips.

* * *

 

Heero stomps into the trailer, barely restraining himself from shoving the door violently back into its frame. He fists his hands into his hair, yanking until the throbbing in his scalp overwhelms the irritation. Circling the miniscule room, counting his steps, he paces until the raging scream of Duo’s name fades from his thoughts. He halts in front of his laptop as a shrill beep rips from the speakers, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. An existing connection surges to life and he sinks numbly to the chair. A fuzz of static drifts through the room and he leans closer, straining for any sort of response.

A rustling noise, as if the person on the other end is shifting, and an unintelligible mumble reward his efforts, and he holds his breath. _Please_. Finally, a softly indrawn breath. A babble of words, tangling together, becoming slowly more coherent. A familiar voice that makes his heart surge, even as the words drop the floor from beneath his feet.

“… ‘Ro… ‘m so fucking pissed at you ri’ now. ‘s all yer fault. Some asshole… drugged me. All I wanted to do was forget about you. Just fucking… wanted some peace. An’ then he fuckin’ shot me up when he was riding me. Who the fuck does that, ‘Ro? Jesus. Can’t fuckin’ believe… you left me. Damn you for leaving me like this… fuck.”

The words trail off, curses slurring together, and then the slow skid of fabric across the microphone. Silence. The connection fades. Heero’s skin is cold, so cold. A ball of ice forms in his gut, chilling him from the inside. From a distance, he vaguely registers pain, realizes that the words hurt him. Duo has moved on, already. Not only moved on, but found a lover who is apparently a drug addict. Was he so terrible that even a narcotic-addled bastard is a better partner than him? No wonder Duo has dropped off the grid… busy with someone new, and probably occupied by a new life of drugs and alcohol.

And he has the nerve to blame Heero for his bad decisions.

_So that’s how it’s going to be, Duo? Fine. I don’t have to think you’re dead to forget you._


End file.
